Harry Potter and the Sorting Gone Wrong
by Perenne
Summary: It's the small things that change the big picture. Harry never met Ron to warn him against Slytherin, and so, history is turned on its head. Full summary inside. Grey!Harry
1. The Letter That Changed It All

**HARRY POTTER AND THE SORTING GONE WRONG**

* * *

 _It's the small things that change the big picture. Harry never met Ron to warn him against Slytherin house, and so, history is turned on its head. Join Harry as he struggles through hardship and the sea of cultural and political difficulties of pureblood society. Slytherin isn't about to welcome their Lord's vanquisher with open arms, but The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-Anathema won't go down without a fight. Harry Potter was meant to soar, never to drown. Least of all in Slytherin's treacherous waters. Alas, things only get more complicated with Dumbledore's unwelcome suspicions and the very persistent black jornal of one T. M. Riddle._

 **Book I**

 **The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-Anathema**

* * *

Little Whinging was a decent town for decent folk. Its inhabitants were not the sort of people who would willingly search for trouble or make a ruckus. Far from it, they were the sort of people who cared so much about their outward appearance that they went very far indeed to achieve what in Little Whinging was considered 'normal'. A particularly normal street in this particularly normal town was Privet Drive. In this street especially no one put a toe out of line, for no one dared appear abnormal. And if they did step a toe out of line, it was for perfectly understandable reasons such as covertly spying on the neighbors. Truth be told, Privet Drive's intelligence apparatus was a well-oiled machine, worked hard everyday by housewives and hags alike, and aided especially by the strategical placement of objects which facilitated concealment. There was a plethora of freshly trimmed lawns to pick from, after all, contrasted smartly by white-painted fences stretching out left and right and the occasional fertilized rosebush.

Privet Drive's number four fit this description to the dot. It had a lawn, which, by the looks of it, ought to be nicely cared for (and bade excellent cover for spying) and an equally polished backyard. The house itself was certainly not too small nor too big, just big enough to stand out as a decent property, inhabited of course by decent people. Nothing about it was unorthodox or peculiar; nothing whatsoever hinted at abnormality. Its curtains were drawn at night and open during the day, the mailbox was emptied with care and at regular intervals, the garage held a car of sizable proportions… – sizable just like its owner, one Vernon Dursley. According to Mr Dursley, both his household and his car were respectably decent, (though he wouldn't say no to a new Porsche) and the neighbors had seen no reason at all to doubt his claims. As far as they knew, Private Drive's number four was inhabited by a charming family of three, rather well off – though perhaps a little lacking on the charitable side.

What many didn't know, however – largely to the Dursleys titanic efforts – was that within the house dwelled something… odd. Something that was not quite right, not quite like the Dursleys and their white fences and trimmed lawns.

That something was a ten-year-old boy. His name was Harry Potter, and he was many things. Of those few who did know about Harry Potter's existence, many claimed that he was trouble, parroting largely the Dursleys themselves and their constant punishing of the boy. Others went further, thinking him a delinquent or even a fence, while the remaining neighbours were of the opinion that he was just a child. But most concurred in one thing: there was something bizarre about Harry Potter.

He was skinny, with knobby knees and a pale complexion. He was bespectacled, his clothes ratty and too large for him. He was may things, but fashionable was not one of them, whispered the gossiping housewives. What they didn't know was that Harry Potter was also a great cook.

That particular morning, like many others, Harry had devoted his skills to making breakfast. He had just flipped over the bacon in the frying pan when Uncle Vernon, a large, stocky man with eyes like tiny icicles, came stomping into the kitchen.

"Comb your hair, boy!" he barked at Harry. He tended to do that. Like clockwork, once a week, Uncle Vernon would squint over his newspaper and gripe about Harry needing a haircut. Contrary to popular belief, Harry had likely been to the hair salon more often than all of the boys in his class put together… but in spite of Uncle Vernon's best efforts, his dark hair remained a crow's nest.

Harry was busy frying eggs when Aunt Petunia traipsed into the kitchen along with his cousin, Dudley. Dudley's hair was blond and vapid, just like Petunia's, but he had otherwise taken more after his father and his walrus-like complexion. In Harry's humble opinion, his cousin looked like a pig with a wig. In Aunt Petunia's eyes, he was the very epitome of a little angel.

As usual, it didn't take long for Uncle Vernon to disappear behind his newspaper, while Dudley busied himself by banging on the table with his new Smelting stick. But even through all the noise he was making, they all heard the clattering sound of letters in the mailbox.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his newspaper.

"Harry should do it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Dudley should do it."

"Put him down a peg with your stick, Dud."

Harry dodged the incoming swing and went to retrieve the mail. There were three letters inside the mailbox. One was a postcard from Aunt Marge, probably made up of Vernon's sister retelling all about her holidays in Wight and about how she wished the Dursleys could be there – minus Harry, of course. She liked to make a very clear distinction.

Next was a plain brown envelope… but Harry's eyes quickly skipped right over it and latched onto a letter, a letter addressed at him. Its envelope was thick and heavy, made up of a yellowish sort of… parchment. There was no stamp, and the address was written in flowing, emerald green calligraphy. And what an address!

 _Mr. H. Potter_ , it read.

 _The Cupboard Under the Stairs_

 _Private Drive, 4_

 _Little Whinging_

 _Surrey_

Harry reread it with elation. His hands were itching to open it as he turned the envelope over. There was a purple crest with an 'H' on it, but before Harry could truly stop to examine it more closely, Uncle Vernon bellowed from the kitchen for Harry to get back, making some kind of unsavory joke about his checking for bombs concealed within the mail. Harry was about to return inside as he was, but then he thought better of it. Something was holding him back. Call it intuition, but Harry could already see the Dursleys ruining his first correspondence ever. Last time at the zoo, he'd been grounded for two months and Uncle Vernon had just lifted the punishment yesterday. Needless to say, Harry wasn't keen on a repetition.

But would the Dursleys truly mind if he had a pen-pal? What if the letter was from a lost relative who wanted to come and retrieve him? Harry felt his stomach jumping in glee at the possibility. Surely, the Dursleys wouldn't mind _that_. It couldn't be from the library or anything, because Harry had no membership cards whatsoever, and school was already out, so who?

Just as he was pondering over this, Harry picked up on the scraping noise of a chair. To his horror, it was Uncle Vernon's thudding footsteps that followed. They were headed his way. Harry only had a split second to think as he fumbled around with the mysterious letter. Should he conceal it? Or should he show his uncle? Perhaps it'd be best to wait and see what it said first? But what if Harry got caught?

For better or for worse, when Uncle Vernon made it to the door, the letter was safely stashed in the front pocket of Harry's overly large sweater, courtesy of Dudley's hand-me-downs. Uncle Vernon wouldn't be able to tell it was there.

And just like that, such a small choice would be enough to change everything.

Harry handed Uncle Vernon the remaining correspondence and promptly fled his presence, returning to the kitchen to resume his cooking. The bacon had burned over slightly while he was away, and so Aunt Petunia made him eat those particularly charred slices, but Harry was too happy about his letter to care. He went through the motions of breakfast mechanically, drowning out Uncle Vernon's inane chatter about Aunt Marge being constipated and Dudley's boasting about Smelting, his prospective high school. Harry himself would be attending Stonewall High, where he'd be free of his cousin's reign of terror for the first time in his life. Without Dudley there to scare off the other children, perhaps he'd manage to make friends… though Harry's hopes had been significantly dampened that very morning when he'd spotted Aunt Petunia dyeing some lumpy old clothing black. According to her, the rags were Harry's uniform-to-be. He didn't need to be a genius to know how the other children would react to that kind of garb.

It was a good thing that the letter had come now, for it had shooed all of his concerns out of the window. In fact, Harry was so intrigued by it that he shoveled the usually cherished bacon into his mouth, barely even savoring it. He was devouring his sparse meal at a pace faster than even Dudley's, and soon, the plate was clean.

Cheerfully stashing it away , Harry excused himself to the loo. The loo was the only room he was allowed into which could be locked from the inside, and as Harry figured that he wouldn't want Uncle Vernon barging in on him while he read the letter, the loo would have to do. Once he was sure not to be interrupted, Harry lowered himself into the toilet-seat and reached into his front pocket with quivering hands. This was it.

Again, he was greeted by the strange (yet accurate) address written in copperplate, and the purple crest with an 'H'. Looking more closely now, Harry could spot four animals imprinted on it. A lion, a serpent, an eagle and a badgder. Bellow them, there was a tiny inscription. Harry squinted at it. 'Draco dormiens nunquam titillandous' it read. Harry figured that it must be written in Latin or the like, and his curiosity was piqued even further. Though then it occurred to him… what if the letter was written in Latin also? But his concerns proved to be unnecessary, for it was scripted in perfectly understandable English.

 _Dear Mr. Potter,_ it began.

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Term begins on 1 September._

 _We await your owl by no later than 31 JULY._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _M. McGonagall,_

 _Deputy headmistress_

 _HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

 _HEADMASTER ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_

 _(Order of Merlin, first class. Grand sorc. Chf. Warlock._ _Supreme Mugwump. International confed. of wizards)_

Harry was positively gaping by that point. Say what? A school for wizards? And he, Harry, was to attend it? Harry could feel his eyes filling with tears. Impossible. He was no wizard. Magic didn't even exist. It was all a lie, a false hope. 'That's it,' he thought ruefully. 'It was a prank all along.' The Dursleys were bound to be laughing at him downstairs.

Harry felt rage building inside of him. He was mad. The Dursleys always ruined EVERYTHING! It had been a long time since he'd felt anger this intense. It was building in his gut, _suffocating_ , leaving Harry almost breathless. He was so furious that he couldn't help but to scream. Harry didn't want to quit the room, didn't want to see the Dursleys laughing at the prank, thriving at his misery. This was too much. All the pent up frustration of his two-month grounding had taken over, and Harry screamed and screamed and could hardly check hi need to break something. Harry didn't even hear the deafening noise which resouded through the house, or hear Vernon banging at the door. He didn't realise that the faucet had burst, didn't aknowledge the water which streamed wildly into all possible directions, drenching Harry and the letter and his general surroundings. Right, the letter. Harry madly crushed it into a ball, a wrinkled piece of crashed hopes which he stuck into his pocket. He didn't even want to see it.

It was to a scene of utter chaos which Uncle Vernon stormed into after finally unlocking the door two minutes later. The faucet was broken and leaking water everywhere. Harry, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the chaos, undeterred, screaming at the top of his lungs. His clothes were completely drenched and his round spectacles so wet that it was unlikely he could still see anything at all.

"Get out, boy!" Vernon howled furiously. Then he made a wild dash for his toolkit in the garage.

Harry, meanwhile, had been banned in the garden until dry, where he succeeded in calming himself down a little. On one hand, he was terrified of the upcoming punishment, which he was sure his uncle would dish out as soon as the incident was resolved… but on the other, he was still reeling about the faucet. How slim were the chances of something like that happening?

Harry snorted. It was a mute point, since the unlikeliest of things always seemed to happen around him. What had been the chances of the crystal suddenly vanishing back at the snake house in the zoo? Or of his teacher's wig to suddenly turn blue? Now that he thought about it, Harry could recall quite a few strange events happening around him, always when he was really angry, or scared. Almost like… but that couldn't be, could it? Harry pulled the crumbled letter out of his pocket, noting with puzzlement that it wasn't even the slightest bit wet. He stared at it, thinking wildly. Could it be real after all? Could he do magic after all? It seemed preposterous to even consider, but Harry now held hope. He wanted, no, needed it to be true. Hogwarts had to be real. Just then, Aunt Petunia called Harry from within the house, and, stomach filling with dread, Harry returned inside.

To his surprise, Uncle Vernon didn't punish Harry at all. He seemed to think that there had been something wrong with the plumbing system, and kept bragging about how Dudley would have held himself together like a man had the same happened to him, as opposed to Harry's 'terrified' screeching. This reduced Harry to the laughingstock of Dudley's gang for the next few weeks, but it definitely beat being grounded in the cupboard. In the meantime, Harry himself had come to the resolution to reply to the mysterious letter in order to find out the truth once and for all, but there was a problem. He had no idea what this McGonagall person meant by 'awaiting your owl', and there wasn't even a remittent he could address his reply to. In the end, he'd come to the conclusion that it would be best to just go to the post office and ask for help. The issue with that plan was that the post office was located quite a ways off, and Harry would have to ask Uncle Vernon for a ride, which he knew would never be provided. Telling the abnormality-abhorrent Dursleys about the letter didn't seem like a grandiose idea either, considering, so what was Harry supposed to say? The situation seemed hopeless.

However, Harry's chance to drop by the post office came sooner than expected. The Dursleys had all been invited to attend to a football match along with Piers and his family. Piers was Dudley's best friend, more shrewd and mean-spirited than even Dudley himself, and as such, he'd happened to make sure that Harry wouldn't be able to tag along to the match no matter what: there were only three extra tickets, and Harry's name was in neither of them. He would have to stay at home. But since Petunia and Vernon Dursley would have hated to leave their precious house at the mercy of Harry for the grand total of three hours, that put them in quite a tight spot. Harry, however, had been eager to provide a solution. It was straightforward enough: he'd steer away from the prying eyes of the neighbors that his aunt was so afraid of, to instead spend the allotted time loitering around on Dudley's old bicycle, far, far away from private drive number four. After numerous tantrums from Dudley and pacifying promises of new bikes from Aunt Petunia, Harry's request was granted. And so, even in spite of his cousin's loud protests, he soon found himself riding on Dudley's old bicycle in direction post office.

Luckily, Harry's orientation-sense had hitherto always been good, and it didn't fail him this time either; he made it to the post office without a hitch. It wasn't until he was standing behind the counter that he began to get doubts. He was just a ten-year-old boy, looking to send a reply letter (which he'd carefully crafted during the course of an entire afternoon) to a mysterious direction which wasn't even provided. To top it off, his reference letter was completely incongruous with conventional mail.

"Can I help you with something?"

It was Harry's turn in line. He'd just have to hope for the best. Fingering the letter in his pocket, Harry nervously explained the strange circumstances surrounding it and hoped that the attendant would believe him.

"Hogwarts, you say?" repeated the man. "I feel like I've heard that name before at some point… Claire? Come over here for a 'sec."

To Harry's elated befuddlement, another attendant scurried over to them. Did Hogwarts really exist, then? He waited impatiently as the first employee briefed the other over the situation. Harry uncomfortably wiped the sweat building over his brow and tried not to show how out of his depth he felt. With a start, he realized that 'Claire' was staring at his forehead, her eyes like saucers.

"May I see the letter?" she interrupted her colleague abruptly, still staring at Harry.

"Sure…" Harry handed it to her, just as the other attendant turned elsewhere, a chagrined look on his face.

"Yes!" The woman shrieked gleefully, taking Harry's hands into her own and shaking them impetuously. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry Potter! I'm Claire Smith!"

"Err, likewise…" said Harry.

The woman kept excitedly staring at him for a few seconds, until apparently coming to the realization that she was making Harry uncomfortable. She harrumphed, blushing.

"So… about your Hogwarts letter… I'm assuming you don't know how to send a reply?"

Harry nodded.

"Don't worry dear, let me handle that. It's actually a bit tricky to do without owls, but…"

"So, err," Harry interrupted, "is it truly real? Hogwarts, I mean."

"Oh, yes!" gushed the woman. "Of course, you don't know about that? But you do know that you're a –" Claire trailed off suddenly, glancing around the area like a spy in a movie. "Tell you what, I'll invite you to tea right over there and then we can talk!" And with no further ado, she sauntered over to the manager and started speaking to him very quickly.

In less than a minute, Harry found himself seated opposite to this strange woman in an adjacent cafe.

"So…" said Claire speculatively, "how much _do_ you know?"

"I think I've done magic a bunch of times, maybe, and the letter said I'm, uh, a wizard," Harry muttered.

"Well of course you are, Harry Potter! Don't you know _anything_?"

Harry shook his head mutely.

"Okay!?" Claire exclaimed hysterically, as though his admission were the most unexpected thing in the world. Harry was becoming distinctly uncomfortable. " _Okay_ ," Claire began again, composing herself. "I'm certainly not the most indicated person to do this, but… Welcome to the wizarding world, Harry Potter!"

Harry gulped. "So I'm really a wizard? Are you a sorceress, then?"

"The common term is a witch, but no, I'm a squib," said Claire dryly. "Basically, I was born in a magical household but I can't do magic myself."

Harry stared at her, at a loss of what to say. Was this Claire person like the Dursleys, who hated magic? Should he congratulate her or express his condolences? As though sensing his inner turmoil, Claire waved him off, reopening the Hogwarts letter and flipping through an enclosed list of spellbooks and other necessities.

"It hasn't changed a bit," she whispered, seemingly lost in her own world.

Harry coughed awkwardly to regain her attention.

"Err, about those books…"

"You're wondering where to buy them? Don't worry, I'll give you directions."

"No," said Harry. "It's err, I don't think my…" he screwed his eyes shut, wishing he could be anywhere else.

"Yes?"

"I don't think the Dursleys would really want to buy this stuff… Actually," Harry confessed, "They don't even know about the letter."

"Huh?" said Claire. "Who's that, your mysterious 'relatives'? And of course they know, all magical children get one."

"They… I don't think they know I'm magical."

"What? That's bullshit!" burst out Claire. "So they've never told you anything? About… everything?"

Harry frowned.

"They usually got mad when freakish stuff happened."

Claire seemed to be at a loss for words, gaping at Harry like a stranded goldfish.

"Alright," she said, regaining her bearings. "So you're worried those Dursy guys won't support your attending Hogwarts, correct?"

"Exactly," said Harry.

"Hmmm… Well, this much I can tell you: you won't need to worry about the expenses, just drop by Gringotts – that's the Wizarding bank – and tell them what's going on. As for your relatives actually allowing you to go…" Claire wrinkled her nose, as though the mere notion of Harry failing to do so were inconceivable, "Well, you only need to know that, as long as you write them an affirmative reply letter, the personnel at Hogwarts will make sure you get to go and talk to those Dursies if necessary."

"Really?" asked Harry. Claire smiled at him.

"Really. And now… shall I point out where to go in order to get your school stuff? The place is called Diagon Alley…" She was lost in thought for a moment. "You know what? Scratch that, I'm hiring you a cab."

"What? No! I couldn't—"

"Nonsense," interrupted Claire, pressing a wad of money into Harry's closed fist. "I'm glad to have met you, Harry Potter. Really glad."

Harry's mouth fell agape. That was the first time someone had ever said something like that to him. He knew in his mind that it would be terribly rude to accept the money… but how else was he going to get to London and buy his school stuff? His _Hogwarts_ stuff. He could barely believe it. What if this was all just an elaborate ploy to kidnap him or something? It all seemed too good to be true. He eyed Claire, who was calling a cab on her phone, with a sliver of mistrust. Wasn't it real convenient that she just so happened to be a 'squib', unable to prove the existence of magic? It simply didn't make any sense. Why would this complete stranger be willing to just give away her money for him? Why? Why would she go so far? Was it her job to help out clueless children like Harry, who had no idea how to send a reply to Hogwarts? Was there somebody like her in every post office?

"Can you prove it?" Harry asked intensely. "Can you prove somehow that magic exists?"

Claire looked at Harry with a strange gaze, then reached for her handbag.

"See this?" She'd taken out a photo. A moving photograph. Harry stared at it with shock, but, as if that weren't enough, Claire began pulling out more objects, each one of them more outrageous than the last. Finally, when she'd pulled out a blow-drier that was most definitely larger than the handbag itself, Harry exclaimed:

"Okay, okay! I believe you! Magic is real!"

"Yup, and you're gonna be able to make yourself a handbag like this one in only a few years' time," said Claire wistfully. "Isn't it amazing? Now off you go, Harry Potter! The cab's here!"

And indeed, it was. Harry stood up uncertainly. It felt completely anticlimactic to just leave Claire behind without repaying her for her kindness somehow…

"Thanks for all the help…" said Harry sincerely. "I mean it. Someday, I'll make it up to you."

Claire had laughed at his words, shrugging them off and waving him goodbye as he departed on the cab, but Harry had made up his mind about the whole thing. He would. Shrugging, he stared out of the window… his thoughts drifting to 'Diagon Alley', and 'Gringotts', and Hogwarts… Harry smiled. He was a wizard, and this was the beginning of his journey.

 **A/N:**

 **So. Here it all starts. Next chapter: the sorting! R/R And do tell me if you spot any mistakes :)**


	2. The Sorting Hat

Harry waited with all of the other first-years in the dark chamber.

"We're getting sorted as soon as we come out!" whispered a boy.

"Fred told me that we'll have to fight a troll now!" said another.

To Harry's left, there was a girl muttering about all the spells she'd memorized in advance. Harry tried not to feel too ill. To put it bluntly, he felt wholly under-prepared now. He didn't even know what 'getting sorted' was supposed to mean! And neither did he know spells, or the first thing about battling trolls. Harry felt as though he was in a trance. He didn't even recognize anyone, unlike apparently everybody else. How had they all made friends so quickly? Had it been on the train? Buying their school supplies? Or had they met each other in advance?

At the time of purchasing his schoolbooks, Harry had felt like giving himself a mental pat on the back for a job well done. Not only had he somehow managed to find his way to Diagon Alley all on his own, but he'd also successfully navigated through Gringotts, the wizarding bank, where he'd found out about the small fortune in the form of wizarding currency that his parents had left him, thanks to which he'd managed to get a hold of everything on the Hogwarts list without a hitch. The only remarkable incident in his trip (barring all the magical objects Harry had encountered) had been the acquisition of his wand. He fingered the wooden instrument in his pocket; it felt reassuringly warm even now, contrasting with the wandmaker's words a few weeks ago, which resounded in Harry's skull ominously.

( _"Curious indeed how these things happen," Mr Ollivander had murmured._

" _Excuse me, sir, but what's curious?" Harry had asked._

" _I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter. It just so happens that the phoenix whose tail-feather resides in your wand gave another… just one other." Mr Ollivander had paused then, his adumbral eyes fixed on Harry's. "It is curious that you should be destined for this wand… when its brother gave you that scar."_

 _Harry had placed a hesitant hand on his forehead. That couldn't be true – he'd acquired his lightning bolt-shaped scar in a car crash when he was little. Still, something_ _compelled him to ask:_

" _And who owned that wand?"_

 _Mr Olliwander's eer_ _ie_ _, blue eyes had widened even more. "We do not speak his name! The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter. It's not always clear why. But I think it is clear that we can expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible! Yes. But great."_ )

It had made Harry feel uncomfortably like some kind of character in a mystery movie. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Just who on earth was that? Mr Olliwander had downright refused to speak his actual name, and Harry felt uneasy asking a stranger about it. He frowned to himself, trying to steer clear of the topic.

Besides the wand-maker's ominous declaration, Harry hadn't encountered any other difficulties in his path. The Dursleys had reluctantly agreed to let him go to Hogwarts after he'd mentioned the 'personnel' that would be sent to fetch him if they didn't, and after Uncle Vernon's dropping him off at the King's Cross train station, Harry had had no trouble at all following the indications of a shopkeeper at Diagon Alley to find the magical Platform 9 and 3/4. Once in the Hogwarts Express, he'd esconded himself in a quiet compartment and spent the ride fantasizing about magic and Hogwarts and mysterious creatures as he peered out of the window. But now he was here, and… Harry felt terribly lost.

Before his thoughts could spiral out of control even further, the strict-looking woman dubbed as 'Professor McGonagall' had returned and beckoned for all of the first years to follow her. She led them along corridors and armor suits, closer and closer to the boisterous voices of the remaining student body, until they stopped in front of a huge door, the door to 'the great hall'. The room was just as astounding as the sight of Hogwarts in the distance had been. It was humbling, thought Harry, looking at the huge stone columns that rose infinitely. Literally. To everyone's astounded gaping, the great hall lacked a ceiling – or, as the girl from earlier whispered, whose ceiling was enchanted to look like there was none. When Harry lowered his gaze back to the earthly plane, he was assaulted by an avalanche of gazes on all the other first years. The whole school was staring at them, pointing, analyzing, whispering.

Harry felt increasingly nervous, as he and the others were all prompted to stand in line at the very front of the four student tables, right next to where the staff sat. To the first year's collective surprise, Professor McGonagall brought over a stool with a lumpy hat placed upon it. To further their astonishment, the hat suddenly opened its – was that a mouth? – and began, of all things, to sing.

 _"Oh you may not think I'm pretty," it crowed loudly,_

 _"But don't judge on what you see,_

 _I'll eat myself if you can find_

 _A smarter hat than me."_

Harry laughed along with a few others. Was this kind of thing typical in the wizarding world? Maybe the hat he'd bought at Madame Malkins' was into rhyming too? The hat continued its song unheeded:

 _"You can keep your bowlers black,_

 _Your top hats sleek and tall,_

 _For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_

 _And I can cap them all."_

'Okay, that answers my question,' thought Harry.

 _"There's nothing hidden in your head_

 _The Sorting Hat can't see,_

 _So try me on and I will tell you_

 _Where you ought to be."_

Harry frowned. So this was the sorting? But to where? The hat must truly be a mind-reader as it claimed, for Harry's question was answered yet again:

 _"You might belong in Gryffindor,_

 _Where dwell the brave at heart,_

 _Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_

 _Set Gryffindors apart;_

 _You might belong in Hufflepuff,_

 _Where they are just and loyal,_

 _Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_

 _And unafraid of toil;_

 _Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_

 _If you've a ready mind,_

 _Where those of wit and learning,_

 _Will always find their kind;_

 _Or perhaps in Slytherin_

 _You'll make your real friends,_

 _Those cunning folks use any means_

 _To achieve their ends."_

Harry had been listening closely to all of the descriptions, a terrible feeling spreading in his gut with each one that passed. He didn't feel like he fit into any of the categories! Sure, he wanted to learn magic, but he'd never done really well at school, and he certainly wasn't brave. He absolutely wanted to 'find his real friends', but Harry was fairly certain that he was neither cunning nor particularly driven. That only left the second house, Hufflepuff, which honestly sounded like the best to Harry anyways, but he didn't think he was terribly patient or well-mannered… and the Dursleys didn't seem to think so either, so what then? Harry could feel himself starting to panic.

 _"So put me on! Don't be afraid!_

 _And don't get in a flap!_

 _You're in safe hands (though I have none)_

 _For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The Great Hall broke out into cheers once it had become apparent that the recital was over. It all sounded like white noise to Harry's ears. As soon as the student-body had calmed down, Professor McGonagall explained that she'd be calling the first years' names in alphabetical order, and gave instructions for the aforementioned newcomers to step forward and try on the hat come their turn.

Henceforth, the sorting began.

More and more children were getting called up, and Harry noted with dread that the hat didn't seem to take as long with some as it did with others. What if Harry's sorting went on for ages? What if McGonagall took the hat off his head and said that Harry should pack his things and return to the Dursleys, that it was all a mistake?

Before he could torture himself any further, Harry's name was finally called:

"Potter, Harry!"

And in the blink of an eye, the whole hall had gone completely silent. Harry felt suddenly terribly uncomfortable. Was there something on his face? People were whispering, pointing at him, craning their necks just to see. Feeling like he was walking into his doom, Harry stepped forward, and Professor McGonagall placed the hat on top of his head. The last thing Harry saw before it dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people attempting to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, ah, my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of his stool and hoped that the hat would make up its mind already.

"Impatient, are you?" quipped the small voice. "Or just nervous?" The first thing the hat had remarked about Hufflepuff was that they were patient folks, something which Harry knew he was most definitely not. And the hat had seen through him in one second flat.

'There goes my ticket to Hufflepuff,' thought Harry mournfully.

"Hufflepuff, you say? No, I don't think Helga's is the right house for you… But what's this, hmm? An independent spirit… very resourceful, I see, and quite clever when you want to be. Perhaps… yes, I think I know where to put you, hm."

The voice was quiet for a beat, seemingly mulling over its options.

Harry's gut meanwhile churned. He was not deaf to the whispers around him.

'Funny how the hat seems to hear what I'm thinking but I haven't a clue on where it wants to sort me,' thought Harry grumpily.

"Quite appetent too, it seems," tutted the voice. "I can see it all in here… the potential for greatness. It is all right here in your head…"

Harry thought wildly. Did that mean that people would want to befriend him? Suddenly, there was an incredible feeling of longing in his chest. He wished with all his heart that he could make a name for himself—a name people would hear and not think of the boy who sleeps in a cupboard together with the spiders, the boy wearing rags to school and who always dwells by himself.

"Interesting… very interesting," remarked the voice. "If that is what you want, then I know just the house for you… Slytherin will help you on the path to greatness, no doubt, Harry Potter."

Harry was relieved that the hat had finally made its decision. By this point, he didn't care where he was sorted as long as it meant he could remain at Hogwarts.

"Excellent, then my mind is made up. I reckon I shall put you in SLYTHERIN!"

Harry heard the hat shout out the last word to the whole hall. He took it off and walked shakily toward the Slytherin table. There were so many thoughts and emotions zapping through his brain, he barely noticed that his sorting had elicited by far the loudest reaction yet. Though people weren't cheering exactly… no, they were all talking, talking among themselves, talking over each other — and it wasn't just the Slytherins — even the teachers were bringing their heads together in hushed conference as they eyed him. Harry felt like he'd missed something. No one had done that before with any of the other sortings, so what was going on? Why was Harry's any different? When he reached the Slytherin table, it grew uncomfortably silent. A few people greeted him with polite stiffness, but seemed wary somehow; guarded. Harry was beginning to wonder whether the hat had just been pulling his leg after all when a blond boy extended his hand for him to shake. Harry obliged him.

"Draco Malfoy," introduced the blonde with a smirk. "I see you know how to tell the bad apples apart from the victors, Potter." _The victors being me,_ seemed to be implicit in his statement.

Harry shook his hand. He wondered uneasily whether Malfoy's definition of 'bad apple' were boys living in cupboards and wearing rags. He was suddenly very glad for the compulsory standard uniforms at Hogwarts.

"So you're the silent type, eh?" Malfoy pressed.

Now that he thought about it, Harry was actually pretty quiet. He had had no friends at school, and certainly wasn't anxious to engage the Dursleys into unnecessary conversation. Harry had never thought of himself as inherently quiet or shy, but he could see where Malfoy was coming from.

He shrugged. "Just a bit overwhelmed is all. D' you happen to know why everyone is making such a fuss about my sorting?"

"What?" Malfoy's brows shot into his hairline.

Harry scratched his cheek uncomfortably. Had he imagined all that? Hardly. At least, he didn't think he had. But maybe Malfoy thought he was blowing things out of proportion and being a prat?

"You're Harry Potter, what did you expect?" A new voice joined into the conversation. Harry recognized the speaker as the boy who'd been sorted into Slytherin before him, though he didn't remember his name.

At Harry's confused expression, he and Malfoy exchanged looks.

"Don't you know _anything_?" interrupted another first-year, a hard-faced girl this time, which sat in front of him.

A feeling of foreboding was rising in Harry's gut. "Depends on what you're talking about," he replied cautiously.

"How cute," the girl sniped sarcastically. "Watch this, everyone. Potter's utterly clueless!"

Another girl with bulging eyes was now staring at Harry as though he'd grown a pair of horns. "You must've been living under a troll's bridge these past few years," she exclaimed, looking aghast.

"Err…" Harry was at a total loss. Did living under the stairs count? For all it was worth, Harry found that Dudley's intelligence was probably on par with that of a troll.

Harry frowned. Moreover, what could it be that he didn't know? Wasn't anyone going to fill him in? Harry sensed that the situation was already precarious – clearly, the girl in front of him was set on making fun of Harry, and everyone else was avoiding his eye, but –

"Hey now, everyone." A very pretty, blond girl spoke up, smiling briefly at Harry as she swiftly changed the topic. "We're doing things out of order. Don't you agree we should first get the introductions out of the way? Some of us here don't know each other yet." Harry sighed, relieved. He couldn't place why, but he found that the girl looked kind of posh, though at least she didn't seem to automatically hate him. Without waiting for an answer, the girl smiled at the whole group and said: "Pleasure. I'm Daphne Greengrass."

The hard-faced girl who had called Harry clueless clung to Greengrass' arm in a gesture that very strongly reminded him of a leech. "Pansy Parkinson," she introduced grinning. "Though I do believe I'm already acquainted with anyone of significance." Parkinson then winked at Malfoy.

"Really? I'm sure you haven't met Snape yet, Pansy," Malfoy cut in self-importantly.

"And you've gone a step further, have you?" inquired a dark-skinned boy, his eyes slanted derisively.

"As a matter of fact, I have, Zabini," rebuffed Malfoy. "I'm confident I'll be able to ace his subject."

"Professor Snape is rumored to be a very unforgiving teacher, isn't he?" pondered Greengrass mulishly.

Parkinson turned toward her with a grin. "Snape's our head of house, you know. I'll bet you he'll be right unforgiving – with the Gryffindor bunch, that is!"

A few of the upperclassmen who had been listening snickered at Parkinson's charming humor. Looking supremely pleased with herself, she turned in her seat to beam at Malfoy, yet the gesture went over his head. His two seatmates – cough, lackeys – made up for it by sending Parkinson vapid grins.

"I heard he makes all the first-year Gryffindors cry," said one of the two, seated to Malfoy's right.

"Yeah," grunted the other as he shoveled pudding into his mouth. "And he hands out a lot of points to our house."

Points? What? What even was a Head of House? Harry could guess more or less, but it was just all too much information, too many alien concepts, to keep up with. Likewise disinterested in keeping up with her conversation with Malfoy's two subjugates, Parkinson turned to the blonde in question, who was chatting with the boy who'd been sorted into Slytherin before Harry.

"Personally, I couldn't care less," the boy was explaining. "I would rather Snape teach us something exclusively. Has he taught you anything yet?"

Malfoy smirked petulantly. "As a matter of fact, he has. He's on splendid terms with Father, you see – and I can tell you: if you know what's good for you, Nott, I'd make sure to study ahead in his subject."

"Duly noted," replied Nott. So far, Harry thought, this Nott person seemed like the nicest of the bunch. Not as stuck up as Malfoy or the black-skinned boy, and neither as dumb as the other two guys flanking Malfoy.

"What does Snape teach?" asked Harry.

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Then, Malfoy said smoothly: "Potions, Potter," and they continued with their conversation. For the rest of dinner (which by the way, Harry had never, ever seen in one place so much available food for him to actually eat) Harry listened to his housemates' chatter and dejectedly wondered how he was ever supposed to make 'true friends' if his everybody kept brushing him off like this. Glancing over at the other house tables, he noticed that none of them seemed to have dynamics quite like the one in Slytherin. Even the Gryffindors which his housemates had spoken so ill off, seemed do be having fun; all of the first years seemed welcome to join in the conversation.

When the feast was over, an older girl who claimed to be 'a prefect' led all of the Slytherin first-years down winding passages and stairs, until the corridors they were walking through were pitch black. Somewhere before him, Harry heard Pansy's distinctive voice.

"I'm scared, Draco!" she was wailing. Draco's unenthusiastic reply eluded Harry. Next to him, Nott appeared to be everything but frightened as he stared ahead blandly. From this perspective, he looked kind of rabbity. Meanwhile, another prefect had waved his wand around, and fire had risen in the torches which were hanging across the walls. The girl with bulging eyes and crazy black hair, who had previously accused Harry of living under a troll's bridge, suddenly began complaining and saying that they were better off "embracing the darkness". Harry thought she was kind of creepy.

"Cut it out, Runcorn!" exclaimed Daphne Greengrass vehemently. "You're scaring Pansy!" Now that he could see, Harry noted that Parkinson was clutching onto Draco like a damsel in distress, or like a particularly greedy leech, maybe.

"Stupid, aren't they?" said the black-skinned boy to no one in particular.

"No one asked you, Zabini," a girl which Harry hadn't noticed before threatened suddenly. She looked menacing, kind of like an angry bulldog. Zabini ignored her, though Daphne Greengrass chirped out a 'Thanks, Millie!' from the forefront of the group. 'Millie' was forgotten afterwards. It didn't take long after that until the prefect stopped walking their group had halted in front of a damp stretch of wall. The prefect stepped forward.

"Draco dormiens nunquantum titillandus," she told the wall, sounding almost bored. To Harry's surprise, (but apparently nobody else's) the wall actually moved aside to let them in. Was this like saying 'sesame, open'? And the password was Hogwarts' motto?

"We've set a password everyone with half a brain will be able to remember," said the prefect, watching them all from her spot next to the concealed entrance. "It will be changed in a fortnight, however, so make sure you've memorized your way back here by then—and pay attention to the noticeboard. I mean it. If you forget to check for the new password, you're on your own. And that goes in every possible sense of the word.

"In this house, we have no use for graceless slobs who lose us points for tardiness or who get caught outside of the common room past curfew." She eyed them all shrewdly. "That's my advice as a prefect. As a Slytherin? I'll tell you this much: a rule is only broken when the perpetrator is found out. If you go, then don't get caught."

"Or better yet," interrupted Malfoy, mirroring her smirk. "Trick someone else into getting caught."

"A Gryffindor, preferably." The prefect seemed to approve wholeheartedly of Malfoy's suggestion. Harry was beginning to draw parallels between the blonde and his equally blonde cousin. He really hoped there weren't more of Dudley's stand-ins in the school. Even the prefect was a candidate. Unaware of his current line of thought, she tossed her hair over her shoulders to then turn towards the whole group again. "Now. What you're gonna do is this: you go into the common room, where you'll find your trunk, and then you get yourself a bedroom and settle in quietly. I don't want you yammering to me about inane concerns such as your roommates or that your bed is too small, and I want complete silence in twenty minutes and no more. Is that perfectly clear? Good. As for tomorrow, I want you all up at half past seven. Our head of house will be giving a brief orientation, after which you are to go to breakfast. And when I say I want you up at seven thirty, that means you will be. Got it? Now go." She stepped aside to let the first-years into the common room and they all subsequently clustered around the entrance, eager to take a peak.

"How quaint," he heard Malfoy comment from within the room. Daphne actually squealed upon entering, and Zabini made a reluctant concession to the tasteful decor. When it was finally Harry's turn to go in, his jaw nearly hit the floor.

The ambiance was cool, what with the green lights flickering calmly in uncountable little silver candles. From a distance, Harry found that they looked like exotic fireflies. 'So this is the Slytherin common room,' thought Harry. It wasn't exactly cozy, but it wasn't unwelcoming either.

The room was vast, with some stairs at the middle which divided it into two sub-levels, the entrance being located in the higher one. From where Harry was standing, the ceiling was a little low if compared to that of the great hall,—but that was hardly a fair comparison.

Glancing around, he could see a plenitude of tapestries decorating the walls, quite a few of them themed with snake motifs, their coloring varied yet tastefully combined. There was a chimney with a few supremely comfortable-looking armchairs and sofas spread around it, and even a coffee-table with what looked to be finely-embroidered Victorian lace as a tablecloth. Harry thought Aunt Petunia might have had a fit right now. She'd always nagged at Uncle Vernon about the expensive furniture some of their neighbors had (she'd made that particular discovery by excessively craning her neck to peek through their windows), but Uncle Vernon clearly preferred to spend his savings in cars rather than in love seats. That wasn't even the only furniture around, as Harry could see more of it in the lower part of the common room, where he quickly headed upon seeing the school trunks on the stony floor.

There was a really elegant, bottle-green lamp right next to him, which suddenly flickered to life when the prefect flicked her wand at it, obviously pleased with the first years' awed reactions. Harry was even more fascinated when the additional illumination revealed the patterns of leafs or ivy engraved in the columns sustaining the room. He even spotted a very realistic-looking snake carved into the stone. It looked a little like the boa which Harry had set free at the zoo. The memory made him smile to himself. How was she doing? Had she made it back to Brazil yet? He was broken out of his revery, however, when Draco Malfoy spoke up:

"What a letdown… during the time my father was here, he told me that they used to charm the walls or sometimes even the furniture to look like the insides of the lake."

The prefect frowned. "It is not up to you to judge, Malfoy," she said calmly. "You will see what it looks like if charmed, I assure you. However, that privilege is granted to us only when we are in the lead with the house cup."

"What?!" shrieked Pansy. "That seems utterly pointless."

"Believe it or not," said the prefect, "since Professor Snape set that condition six years ago, we have won the house cup without fail. I suppose you could call it… a practical motivation to do well."

"Is it really as pretty as they say?" asked Daphne softly.

The prefect smirked. "It's up to you to figure it out."

"Tch." Making a derisive sound, Zabini, approached his trunk and hauled it off in direction dormitories. Harry and a few others followed him, though he could hear Malfoy asking the prefect how she knew his name and if she would do him the honor of introducing herself properly. What a suck-up.

"Flattery will get you nowhere with Gemma Farley, Malfoy," warned the prefect, smirking. "And everyone knows who you are. Almost as popular as Potter," Gemma added derisively, and, feeling suddenly sick, Harry decided not to stick around. Why didn't anyone seem to like him?

He went into the same room Zabini had gone in and planted his suitcase next to the bed with the most space around it and furthest from the door. And what a bed. It alone was easily twice as big as his whole cupboard. All around it, there were green satin curtains that would have given Aunt Petunia an aneurysm, he was sure, but Harry would have welcomed them just as much had they been towels—he was simply glad for the privacy.

"Potter." Draco Malfoy's voice yanked him out of his thoughts. "Move."

"What?" asked Harry groggily. He'd been about to fall asleep.

"I said move," repeated Malfoy impatiently. "The twenty minutes are almost up."

"Why would I move?"

"Because that is my bed."

Harry stared at Malfoy as though he were stupid, still refusing to put his glasses back on. "No, it's not," he stated simply and went back to sleep.

"Potter!" Malfoy yanked the covers away. "If you don't move, I will make you!"

Considering that Harry didn't know the first thing about magic, and Malfoy's earlier claims to have received tutoring in advance, Harry should have probably done as he was told. However, Malfoy had rubbed him the wrong way right since they had met, and Harry was actually really annoyed at him.

"I got here first, Malfoy," he bit out. "And Gemma Farley said not to make a scene, so cut it out."

"Don't you know, Potter, that this was my father's bed when he was here, and my grandfather's bed, before that?"

"So what? Are you banking on getting the same as your father's grades when he was here, and your grandfather's grades before that?" mocked Harry.

"Potter, you—"

"My bed," said Harry, "my rules." And then he closed the curtains in Malfoy's face and went to sleep. Little did he know that he'd just gained a mortal enemy.

 **A/N**

 **Wow, I've had so many positive reactions thus far… I only hope I can live up to the expectations. Reviews make my day, so if you have any suggestions for improvement or see a typo, feel free to let me know.**

 **Now, I'm not going to be doing this very often, but as this is the Slytherins' first appearance, I'll be breaking down their conversation.**

 **First thing we should get us some context. When Harry vanquished Voldemort as a baby, there were all sorts of rumors and conspiracy theories that he himself was a Dark Lord in the making and whatnot. Thus, it is not very difficult to understand why Lucius Malfoy would advise his son to 'get on Potter's good side, just in case'. Henceforth Draco 'graciously' extends a hand of friendship to Harry. His immediate lack of response (or at least enthusiasm) already miffles him, (he doesn't realize Harry is simply mulling over his words), but when, in addition to that 'great offense', Harry admits to being 'overwhelmed' and 'clueless', precisely the two things that are a no-go for Draco, he completely writes him off. Draco is still a kid, so his judgment of Harry is way too quick, but he'd picked up on his insecurity and quiet demeanor and immediately labels him as inferior and bellow him, and most definitely not Dark Lord material.**

 **In Pansy's case, it's not that much of a surprise that she'd immediately start picking on Harry as that's basically the one thing she does in the books, not to mention that it might please her beloved Draco.**

 **As for the rest of the Slytherins… well, if it's not the Dark Lord in the making option, then Harry ought to be The Boy Who Lived, the symbol of the light. Many of them have parents who were death eaters (or where otherwise influenced/scared of them), so no one really dares to approach Harry after Malfoy, the obvious ring leader, writes him off. They prefer to be cautious, wait till someone else breaks the ice or until knowing Harry better… of course, Harry's choice of bed, god forbid, sealed the deal.**

 **(For now.)**

 **You might have noticed that characters such as Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, Theoddore Nott, etc. seemed more neutral. We'll have to see in which way the balance tips for them in the long run ;)**

 **There are a few names you might not be familiar with, such as Tracey Davis, Gemma Farley, or Runcorn, but they all supposedly exist, though haven't got much of a personality. I'll be taking some liberties there. Anyways… hope you liked this!**


	3. Outcast

Severus Snape was every bit as intimidating as he'd been made out to be and then some. The first thing Harry had noticed about him upon hurrying into the common room the following morning were his billowing black robes, which gave him an air of ominous trepidation. From up close, Harry could make out the shallowness of his skin and a rather hooked nose. The most inauspicious thing about him, however, were by far his eyes, black and cold and assessing, glaring at the first-years from behind thick and greasy, dark tresses framing his face. Harry dearly hoped that the glower sent in his direction had been a coincidence. Though he wasn't left time to ponder on it, for Snape wasted not a moment in getting down to business: no sooner had everyone gathered downstairs—exactly on time—the potions master started his speech. Initially, Harry was a bit surprised at how quiet everyone else was, though it quickly made sense once Snape opened his mouth. The man commanded attention. There was clearly an 'or else' somewhere in the way he held himself.

"As I am sure we all have little desire to endure each other's presence for longer than necessary, I'll be brief." Nice start, thought Harry. The words had rolled of his tongue balefully, tinted ever so slightly with the sarcastic tone of a man who has delivered the same speech one time too many. "There is one thing you all need to know about your house… and that is: in Slytherin, we do not abide ineffectuality." Snape spoke quietly; he needn't be loud, for the room was death silent. " _This,"_ Snape made a sweeping gesture across the room, "is to be your haven from now onwards. In case your senses are as dulled as some of the mole-like dunderheads I am tasked with instructing, I'll spell it out for you: right this instant, Slytherin's facilities are tidy, clean and organized. If you expect houselves to come sweeping in after you, then you're sorely mistaken. There are some of you," his scathing gaze rested on the boys flanking Malfoy, "that seem to have a poor notion regarding the concept of bodily odors. I expect all of you to mantain a modicum of cleanliness in your time here. That includes quidditch players" he sneered, glancing at Harry, "and those of you who will doubtlessly manage to incinerate your hair in my class. In case you hadn't noticed, there are no windows in the dungeons. If you reek, then cast a scourgify." He paused, his eyes narrowing at a boy who had opened his mouth to contradict him. "If you don't know how to cast a scourgify, you will take care not to find yourself in a position where it is required. If you still wind up filthy, then _learn_ —if not for common decency, then at least for the rest of the house. Moreover," Snape droned when the boy was about to say something else, "I _don't_ want to hear you bothering your seniors with it; they are not your maids, and neither am I."

Murmurs broke out. Everyone was discussing Snape's anticlimactic introduction. Harry, too, was left perplexed by his contradicting character. Snape was sharp as an arrow yet blunt to a fault, his voice quiet yet penetrating, his eyes empty yet riddled with unarmed depths. To be honest, he made Harry really uneasy. He could tell already that Snape had a presence about him which commanded respect and incondicional authority… and most teachers like that always ended up hating Harry for some reason.

Snape's hand snaped upwards, slushing the room like a general might his soldiers before an important speech.

"Your relationship with Slytherin will be a purely symbiotic one," he carried on flatly. "Besides for keeping up with the basic human necessities, you'll be expected to contribute to Slytheirn's success however you may find yourself able, as it will no doubt aid you just as much in yours, if not more." His gaze combed over the students, pulling them in like an attention-suctioning vacuum cleaner. "I'm aware my demands are terribly uncouth for your delicate selves," he continued, "but keep in mind that complaining will only aggravate the situation. Do not gainsay me. Either you earn points for your house via your scholarly pursuits, or you find other ways to collaborate. You may one day become prefects. You may one day win the quidditch cup, or tutor those in grades bellow you. You can do anything right up to dusting the common room like a maid. As long as you contribute, rest assured that you'll encounter no – difficulties."

Most of the students looked relieved by now, all of them resolute to offer their services and escape what Snape had so graciously dubbed as 'difficulties'.

"Not so quick," called Snape, seemingly reading their minds. "We've gone over what you are expected to do… there are quite a few ground rules alluding to the opposite. As you doubtlessly know from Mrs Farley already, our house has won the house cup six years in a row. Since I asume your vapid minds might find delightment in such a feat, I will warn you now: house cups don't win themselves. Don't expect the older students to pull this off. House points are most easily won in your first school year, so I suggest you apply yourself to your studies from day one. Which is today. This likewise goes for those of you who don't care for the house cup. In Slytherin, we do not condone failure. If it's not house points, at least make sure you're getting something out of your stay here." He paused, his lips curling into a sneer. "For that matter, neither do we abide useless dolts who will gallibate around the school in afterhours, apportioning themselves airs of grandeur on the basis of misplaced beliefs. That has a name, foolishness _, a sentiment which is banned here_. Hubris is reserved for the gryffindors, am I clear?" Harry's breath hitched. Had Snape just leered at him now? Really intently? Wait, of course not. That would just be silly, right? "I do not," the professor continued, "want to see anyone under duress in this house – if you desire to prove your self-worth, then do so in lessons, not by undermining your peers, is this clear? Neither do I tolerate frivolous favoritism – not even in regards to our resident… ah, _celebrity_." A few Slytherins laughed, and Harry wondered who the celebrity in question might be. "Where the rest of the school is concerned," Snape finished smugly, "Slytherins do not single one another out. There are no factions, no uninspiring rivalries among you. Not outside of the common room, at least. So don't be foolish – do not give me a reason to punish you. Rest assured that I will, if I have to. Any questions?"

And his gaze said that there had better be none. When there were indeed no questions, Snape briskly began handing out their timetables, stopping to greet Malfoy rather amicably – though where he was concerned, that just translated to a nod and a polite inquiry. This went on for a while, with Slytherin's head of house paying substantially more attention to some of the first years than he did to others, and Harry had to wonder where the whole 'no frivolous favoritism' rule had gone.

"Potter." Snape was staring him down.

"Yes?"

"The headmaster wishes to speak to you." Snape handed him the timetable as though he might be contagious. "I shall escort you to his office after finishing here."

What had Harry done now? Last time he'd been called to the principal's office was when he'd suddenly appeared on the school rooftop while fleeing from Dudley, and the time before that he'd somehow exploded a basketball. Not to mention the hair-dyeing incident with his homeroom teacher – though Harry now knew what all of those had been: magic. It went without saying that, without exception, each and every time Harry had visited the principal's office had ended quite disastrously. His only saving grace had been the lack of any hard evidence to support Harry's 'misdeeds', which meant that the principal had never really gotten around to suspend him. But that probably wouldn't be of any help in a school where magic was actually taught… Still, Harry was absolutely certain that he hadn't done anything at all this time. Had the Dursleys changed their mind about letting him attend Hogwarts?

"What about breakfast?" he asked Snape nervously. Truth be told, Harry had certainly been starving before, but right now he was just trying to stall for time.

"Your princely appetite mightn't be accustomed to the hardship of postponing it for a few minutes, Potter; but I can assure you, you'll manage to live."

Harry's jaw clenched. "I can go without food for a while just fine," he grit out, aware of the fact that retaliating now probably wasn't such a great idea.

"Excuse my baseless assumptions, Your Majesty," sneered Snape sarcastically. "I didn't mean to bruise your lordly pride." A few of the other Slytherins snickered while he finished handing out the timetables to them, his dark eyes simmering.

When he was done, Snape's wan face tilted ever so slightly. Harry realized Snape must be looking at him from te corner of his eye. Couldn't he so much as face him?

"Let's go, Potter."

Apparently not. Without waiting for a response, Snape swept past him, and in that moment Harry found his billowing robes made for a rather impressive rendition of Batman. He trudged behind his tormentor warily, feeling a strange mix between dread and concern building in his gut. That evolved into a feeling of utter doom when Snape muttered a password and let them into Headmaster Dumbledore's office. Harry didn't know much about the man except for what he'd seen the previous night at the feast and what his housemates had said about him, – namely that he was as mad as a hatter, or alternatively, (grudgingly) a very accomplished wizard. Harry's feeling of dread only increased at the memory. Getting called up to the princial's office before even managing to attend a single lesson must've been a record. He glanced around nervously.

In spite of it still being the wee hours of the morning, Dumbledore's office was alight with life. Objects of all sorts and forms were cluttered all over the place, stewing, puffing, tinkering, chiming or ringing… you name it. Harry even spotted a beautiful vermilion songbird perched gracefully in a corner of the room, but he was frankly too scared to pay it the deserved tribute.

"Ah… thank you for bringing Harry, Severus." Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, by the looks of it thriving in the chaos that was his office. From up close, Harry could see that the headmaster was truly a very aged wizard, more so than one would've guessed from his demeanor at the welcoming feast. Looking at him directly now was jarring, for the headmaster's eyes negated his age completely. They were remarkably alive and blue, right at the moment crinkled in thanks at Snape from behind half-moon spectacles, which sat on a long and crooked nose. A nose, which Harry found, ought to at least have been broken twice.

Snape meanwhile nodded briefly and swept out of the office.

His departure left Harry in the awkward position of being alone with Hogwarts' headmaster… whose intelligent eyes had now fixed upon his face thoughtfully. Harry busied himself by staring at the creases which Dumbledore's long beard was forming on his lime-green robe, hoping with all of his being that he was still on time to change the Dursleys' mind. Had Dumbledore found out that Harry had practically blackmailed them into letting him attend Hogwarts?

"Good morning, Harry!" beamed the headmaster. "I won't be keeping you for long, don't worry – you'll still make it to breakfast with time to spare."

Apparently not.

"Err… yeah. Is there – is there a problem or something?"

"No, no, nothing of the like," assured Dumbledore. "I was merely wondering whether you had settled in well?"

Harry thought of Malfoy's snarling face and grimaced. "I… well. I suppose I can't really say just yet."

"Well spoken, Harry, well spoken indeed. You haven't even begun classes, yet here I am, drowning you with inane questions already! Forgive an old man for worrying senselessly."

"Worrying, Sir?"

"It is nothing you should concern yourself with, I'm sure. As I said, I must admit that I jumped to conclusions a little too quickly."

Now Harry was definitely intrigued. What conclusions, exactly? And what did Harry have to do with any of it?

"Is there something troubling you, Harry?" prompted Dumbledore at his distraught expression.

"Yes, well… I was wondering if your calling me here has something to do with… with everybody acting so weird. When it comes to me, I mean."

Dumbledore frowned thoughtfully, apparently lost in silent contemplation. After a moment, he ventured: "Does the name 'Lord Voldemort' say anything to you, Harry?"

"No."

"I feared that might be the case." Dumbledore looked at him fixedly for a second. "Very well." He sighed. "Then I suppose no one has told you about what happened to your parents? About your scar?"

"They died in a car crash," muttered Harry, suddenly very much reminded of Mr. Ollivander's eerie claims. "I got my scar from a breaking glass shard." Why was Dumbledore bringing that up, anyway?

As busy as he was staring at the headmaster's silvery beard, Harry missed the sorrow reflected in his eyes.

"They did not."

"Sorry?"

"Harry… your parents were some of the bravest, most admirable people I have had the pleasure of knowing – and they gave their live protecting you."

"What?" burst out Harry. "I mean, Sir. What do you mean by that?"

"I suppose it is about time someone told you… I am surprised you haven't found out yet… but I am stalling, aren't I? You see, Harry, eleven years ago, we were all submerged in war. The opposition was lead by a man who went by the name of Lord Voldemort." Dumbledore paused, looking lost in memories. "His aim was to take over wizarding Britain, and he didn't stop at anything to achieve it—not even the sight of your father and mother, giving their last breath to protect their child." A chocked gasp resounded in the sudden silence. "He murdered them both, my dear boy." Dumbledore paused gravely and Harry could feel his eyes become wet, his throat locked painfully.

"Then why am I still here?" he croaked.

"No one truly knows," said Dumbledore gently. "That night, Voldemort cast a spell on you, the one incantation which no one – wizard, creature or muggle – survives. You were but a baby, completely at his mercy, and yet… the killing curse bounced off you, leaving just a scar on your forehead and in our memories. And with that, Voldemort was vanquished."

There were so many questions blasting through Harry's mind right then, so many feelings and reactions and—

Dumbledore absorbed himself in the task of petting the scarlet-feathered bird, which was now resting upon his shoulder, and Harry took the chance to discretely press his palms over his eyelids.

"Why – why would Voldemort do that? And why would the killing curse rebound? I didn't do anything!" He fingered the scar on his forehead self-consciously. His aunt had always said that it was ugly and unsightly, and Uncle Vernon had mostly just barked at him to cover it up or else. And now Dumbledore claimed that it was the token of some heroic feat? Something out of the norm even for wizards?

"Harry. To all of the wizards and witches of our age, you are 'The-Boy-Who-Lived'. No one knows why you did, but they all admire you for it."

"But I'm just Harry! There's nothing special about me. Until this summer, I didn't even know I was a wizard…"

"Now, Harry, don't say that. I am convinced that you are special in your own right."

Harry frowned. His being special had unfailingly always ended up with him in some headmaster's office. To be honest, he was surprised that he was surprised. The only time his magic hadn't sent him to the headmaster was when he'd used it away from school… but one only had to look at the snake incident in the zoo to know that that hadn't gone over well either.

"The snake incident?" repeated Dumbledore curiously.

"Err… I guess that's why I was sorted into Slytherin? I can talk to snakes." Maybe that's why he was in Slytherin – surely his housemates could talk to them too. "Wait, are you alright, professor?"

Dumbledore had taken a sharp intake of breath, and Harry could've sworn that, for just a beat, he'd given Harry a deeply unsettled look.

"No worries, Harry. Parseltongue is a rare gift, I was merely surprised."

"Is it?"

Perhaps that was what the hat and Mr. Ollivander had meant. Dumbledore gave Harry another speculative look, though didn't pry.

"I would advise against telling your housemates about it immediately, Harry," he cautioned. "Some might make assumptions about you based upon it.

That was honestly the last thing Harry needed after Slytherin's frigid welcome, plus the bed debacle, and he felt gratefulness welling up within him.

"Thanks for the warning, sir."

"You're very welcome, Harry." Dumbledore winked at him. "And don't worry, I won't keep you any longer. As nice as your company is, I am sure we are both anxious to eat our breakfast. Off you trot."

Harry did indeed make it in time to breakfast, though his housemates were nowhere to be seen, likely to have eaten already. This was quite unfortunate, for he had no idea where the transfiguration classroom might be. In his increasing panic to find it in the span of five minutes, Harry ended up asking the first prefect he crossed paths with.

"Yes, of course I would be obliged to help you, Mr Potter. That is my duty as a prefect after all."

"Right," said Harry awkwardly, wondering whether the prefect was being so cordial because he was 'The-Boy-Who-Lived'. "You can call me Harry if you want."

If it was possible, the prefect puffed out his chest even further.

"Percy Weasley," he preened. "It's my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Harry."

"Err… likewise. But can we hurry up? I think I'll be late to transfiguration."

Harry made it just in time to class after all, noting when he got there that he had forgotten his spellbook in his room. Unfortunately, there was no time to return to the common room and fetch it.

The rest of his housemates were already present, and there was also a tabby cat sitting on the teacher's desk. The cat, the class would soon discover, was actually Professor McGonagall, who could apparently transfigure herself into it. Thankfully for Harry, McGonagall decided that, as it was the first day, they would be starting with some hands-on exercises, and told the students that they would only need their books for days with a double period of transfiguration, which, much to the Slytherins' dismay, happened to be both right after lunch. From there on, the lesson became less exciting and a lot more frustrating. The remainder of the hour was dedicated to transfiguring a matchstick into a needle, something which soon turned out to be much harder than Harry would have bargained for.

By the end of it, he was convinced that his matchstick had somehow hardened, like metal, though that didn't impede Goile from 'accidentally' breaking it when McGonagall wasn't looking. Gregory Goile was one of Malfoy's henchmen, as Harry liked to call them. It wasn't very difficult to guess whose idea it had been to ruin Harry's matchstick. But since he could prove nothing, Harry had to grit his teeth and ignore the issue.

He was eager to leave though, and as soon as the lesson was over, Harry shot up in his stool like a corkscrew. He then bolted out of the classroom so he could grab his things from his bedroom, which entailed a sprint in direction dungeons. Afterwards, he marathoned back up the stairs again (Harry swore that living in Hogwarts would be enough to make even Dudley fit) and thankfully, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was easier to find. Miracle of miracles, the lesson hadn't begun yet when Harry got there. His stark relief was quickly replaced by a headache though, which Harry supposed was either caused by his stressful morning or by the heavy scent of garlic that wafted around the classroom.

From behind him, Harry heard Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass gossip about how Professor Quirrell has encountered a vampire last summer and subsequently returned 'a changed man'. It soon became apparent that this change must've been for the worse, for it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination to say that the man was afraid of his own shadow – not to mention his exagerated stutter. Harry was thankful about that though, because he was having a lot of difficulties in writing with a quill, the way wizards were supposed to.

After Defense Against the Dark Arts came break, during which Harry roamed the castle for lack there of a better thing to do.

The next subject was charms, taught by a certainly charming but minuscule professor – Filius Flitwick – who seemed positively delighted to have _the_ Harry Potter in his class. (Be careful of what you wish for, they say. Well, Harry was starting to regret his wish to make a name for himself already.)

As the head of Ravenclaw, Professor Flitwick was rumored to be very thorough in his teaching. This time, Harry heard Daphne gossip to Pansy about how their charms teacher had been a dueling champion once upon a time. Harry didn't know about that, but what was for certain was that Flitwick was very passionate about his subject.

"Can anyone tell me the difference between a charm and a jinx?" he squeaked from on top of a huge pile of books.

Smirking, Draco Malfoy lifted his hand.

"Mr Malfoy?"

"It's about the intent," said Draco confidently. "Charms are used for things like chores, drying spells – those kinds of things, while a curse is cast on someone to… work against them."

"Interesting, but not quite what I was looking for," said Flitwick. Malfoy's smirk promptly disappeared from his face, replaced by an utterly stumped look.

"Does anyone know where Mr Malfoy is wrong?" Flitwick asked the class.

This time it was Zabini who volunteered, looking supremely pleased with the situation. "There are charms to make fire, water or even wind appear, and those could be used with a purpose other than house chores, I'd wager."

"Very good!" Flitwick exclaimed, to which the dark-skinned boy smirked, and Malfoy looked annoyed. "Back to the initial question: what then, is the difference between a charm and a curse?"

When no one offered an answer, Harry noticed Theodore Nott (he'd learned his name in roll-call) glance around warily before slowly bringing his own hand into the air. Flitwick gestured for him to speak.

"The difference lies in the interaction between the caster and their magic," said Nott. "A curse needs to be removed with a counter-curse and is otherwise permanent and completely independent of the caster. A charm, I think, needs to be fueled by a continuous stream of magic."

"Perfect!" praised Flitwick. "Ten points to Slytherin!" Nott ducked his head, his eyes flickering around the room quickly, and Harry could tell that he was peering at Malfoy in particular.

"Now, Mr Nott," squeaked Flitwick, "Would you mind repeating that explanation, so that your classmates may copy it down?"

Nott clearly did mind, but enunciated the answer anyway. For the remainder of Flitwick's questions, he did not raise his hand again even once, leaving the answering mainly to Gethen Everett, Adrienne Raynen or the Appleton brothers, who knew a starting amount of things already. Half an hour into the lesson, Flitwick decided that they'd covered enough theory for the day, and, with a quick sweep of his wand, cleaned out all of the tables, leaving them in a corner of the room. There was now a vast space for the Slytherins to move around in, and Flitwick invited them to try and make sparks shoot out of their wands. Harry had already accomplished that upon touching his for the first time, and was proud about it, not to mention that he'd managed to produce sparks of two different colors at once, something no one else had yet achieved. But his smile was quickly wiped from his face when Malfoy apparently decided to vent out his earlier frustration on Harry.

"Gold and red? Please! Potter, why on earth are you in Slytherin?" A few of their housemates giggled, while others inclined their heads slightly to listen in. To Harry's growing dismay, Flitwick appeared to be unaware of the commotion, as he was preoccupied helping another student. He'd have to defend himself alone, then.

"At least I have two colors, and none of them are puce," Harry rebuked.

Malfoy had managed to create sparks the exact same color of Uncle Vernon's skin when he became angry, or alternatively, when he was struggling with the weekly sudoku.

"You dare, Potter?" Malfoy hissed. "I'll have you know that this color is–"

"The skin tone of a pig?" interrupted Harry. "Yes, I can see that."

"–the color of royalty!" Malfoy finished at the same time, though no one heard him.

A few more people giggled, but when Malfoy whirled around and glared at them, they all turned abruptly silent.

"Don't listen to Potter," jeered Malfoy darkly, apparently deciding to take another approach to the conflict. "I'll say. He's a lion in snake's clothing, a _Gryffindork_ if I ever saw one."

Again, people giggled at his pun, and Harry seethed.

"The hat put me in here just like everyone else!"

Malfoy smirked. "Potter, are you aware that your attention span is worse than that of a fly? Didn't you hear our head of house when he said that instigators are not tolerated?"

"You're the one who started this!"

Malfoy just rolled his eyes, turning away from Harry and toward their spectators. "And there he goes again. Just ignore him. Even professor Snape seems to dislike Potter already."

To Harry's growing horror, the Slytherins did just that.

And that was how, thanks to Snape and Malfoy's combined efforts, Harry was ostracized on his very first day of classes. Later, in the common room, it became apparent that prefect Gemma Farley disdained Harry as well, cementing his status as the new outcast.

 **A/N:**

 **Thanks so much for all the positive feedback! I cherish every one of your reviews, favorites and follows!**

 **In any case, things haven't exactly started on the right foot for Harry, but you'll see. It won't stay like that.**

 **Also, I wanted to mention that this is a story with slow-going character development. Too fast and it's not very believable, is what I think. That means the Harry at the beginning will very closely resemble canon, but things will start to differ pretty soon. At first it'll be trivialities, but before you know it, he won't be quite the same Harry anymore.**

 **And just out of curiosity… thoughts on Dumbles and Snape?**


	4. The Head of Slytheirn

It was on that very evening, while a certain newly-minted Slytherin sat alone and friendless in his common room, that Dumbledore called the potions master to his office.

"Care for a lemon drop, Severus?"

"I see that your conversation-starters remain unchanged," replied Snape flippantly. Dumbledore didn't seem to mind the undertone, however, for he merely smiled and plopped one of the sweets into his own mouth.

"I suppose that I'm here because of Potter?" Snape inquired without ado. "If you're going to ask me to coddle him on your behalf—"

"No, no, my dear friend, I do not wish to impose upon you or your house. However, your guess was, as always, very much accurate. I was wondering whether you could tell me, as Harry's head of house, your impression of him."

"My impression," repeated Snape, narrowing his eyes, "concerning Potter? He is a spoiled and disrespectful individual, what else?"

"What about his housemates then?" persisted Dumbledore. "Do they... flock to him? Has he any associates of yet? Perhaps Mr Malfoy has taken to him?"

Snape gave the headmaster an inquisitive look. "Mr Malfoy scorns Potter, as far as I can tell." It was clear in the way he said so that Snape thought his behavior to be very sensible. "And no, I don't think Potter has garnered himself any 'associates' of yet." He gave the headmaster another assessing look. "You wouldn't, per chance, happen to believe in those baseless rumors which hail Potter as the next Dark Lord, would you?" At the lack of reply, Snape's gaze turned slightly incredulous. "Just because Potter was sorted into my house–"

"I don't think Harry is the next Voldemort, Severus," said Dumbledore firmly. "It's just… an old man can't help but worry…"

"Albus, this is ridiculous!"

"It certainly is, I must admit, but it would assuage me greatly if you were to keep an eye on Harry, just in case."

Snape stood silent as a statue.

"Just what is it that he told you when he was here, Albus?" he said stiffly. "What is it that has influenced your opinion of Potter so greatly?"

"Harry is a good lad," sighed Dumbledore. "So very different from Voldemort, yet in some aspects, so very similar."

"You think they're similar?" rasped Snape, alarmed.

"Are they, indeed?" wondered the old wizard. "I'm afraid that may one day come to pass if we neglect to steer Harry into the right path today. There is nothing like true friendship to lighten a child's heart, Severus, and it saddens me greatly to hear that Harry's housemates haven't taken to him. Perhaps Minerva could talk to her students, if the situation remains unchanged. They'd be delighted to befriend Harry, I'm sure."

"Your solution is to have Potter befriend a gaggle of Gryffindors?" Snape's sneer came back full power. "With their brashness and foolish penchant for taking risks, a horde of supremely loyal, Gryffindor death-eaters would be worse than the original product! Slytherins can be swayed by reason, Albus, Gryffindors, most unfortunately, cannot."

"Ah, loyalty. In the end, it all seems to come back to that one word," reflected Dumbledore merrily. "As you said, unconditional loyalty can be dangerous, Severus… but, like unconditional love, those at its receiving end will never try to abuse it." At this, Snape snorted. Dumbledore, however, continued undeterred. "I believe that this positive reinforcement might be exactly what Harry needs – but we're getting ahead of ourselves, I'm afraid. It's unfair of me to be judging him so, based on such a short acquaintance. I merely wished to glean a little more insight into Harry's character by talking to you, my dear friend. I am sorry to have taken up your time."

"I will keep an eye on Potter, just as I do with all of the students in my house," said Snape tightly. "Don't expect me to report to you unless something is definitely amiss – I still think that he is a dunderhead more than anything."

"I understand, Severus. Then I won't keep you any longer."

Scowling privately, Snape turned tail and stalked out of the office.

The next morning, Harry and the other Slytherins gathered in the Great Hall for breakfast.

"Something's wrong with the timetable, look!" exclaimed a brunette as he shoveled eggs on his plate. Harry thought his name might be Dorado Redclay, but he wasn't certain. "Malfoy," Redclay prattled on, "you've got a double period of potions now, but I have astronomy, see. What's up with that?"

Checking his timetable, Harry realized that he, too, had potions first thing in the morning, but no astronomy.

Malfoy smirked. "It must be a printing error. It seems that Hogwarts' incompetence has reached new heights—I would say I'm surprised but I'd be lying."

"It's not an error, I have astronomy too," interrupted Livingstone brazenly. Lynx Livingstone was the only other Slytherin boy in their year besides for Malfoy who had blond hair, but unlike Malfoy, he didn't seem to disdain half of Hogwarts' population on principle.

"What? Then why do _we_ have potions?" grumbled Draco, gesturing to his henchmen.

"Beats me!"

"They're dividing us up." The one to speak this time had been the normally reserved Gethen Everett, if Harry was correct. With his crazy, dark curls and even darker eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to the creepy girl which Harry had seen at the feast, though he didn't appear to be nearly as batty as her.

"Dividing us?" repeated Theodore Nott curiously.

"Yeah, but only for subjects which require special attention from a teacher, I would wager, such as potions, astronomy and herbology," Everett explained, munching on his toast distractedly. "I reckon they're splitting us up by bedrooms – it's what makes the most sense."

Livingstone nodded, looking thoughtful. "There's five students per room, so I'm guessing they'll pick five girls and five boys for each class."

"Isn't that way too little?" interrupted Malfoy.

Everett shrugged. "Neil Nizamutdinov, you know, _that_ third year, told me that we're gonna get paired with another house for this."

"You're kidding right?"

"Well potions had better not be with the Gryffindorks," said Pansy snidely. The others unanimously agreed.

It _was_ with the Gryffindors. They filtered into the classroom shortly after the Slytherins did, taking their seats as far from them as they could possibly manage. Of course, none of them seemed to be inclined to sit in the free spot next to Harry, even though it was objectively one of the best seats.

'Do they think we're diseased or something?' wondered Harry with frustration.

Just then, two gryffindors plopped down behind him.

"Did you know?" whispered one. "You-Know-Who was in Slytherin when he was at Hogwarts." The redhead shivered. "Thank Merlin the hat didn't put me with those slimy snakes!"

The other boy gave a start.

"Do you think… they still support him?" he had a strong Irish accent, which Harry recognized even though his words were barely a muffle.

"I heard all of You-Know-Who's supporters were Slytherins," informed the read-head knowledgeably. "Just look at Malfoy. He's a prejudiced git, just like Salazar Slytherin."

"Um. Wasn't that guy one of the founders of Hogwarts?"

"Yeah. The old loony even invented blood supremacy, I think. Mad as a hatter!"

Harry was torn between feelings of outrage and wanting to be placed in another house. Voldemort had been in Slytherin? Had he known that before the sorting, Harry would've begged the hat not to put him there. On the other hand, he was annoyed at the two Gryffindors for consistently insulting his house like that. Apparently they'd both rather stay at home than be sorted there. Harry found that that was rather mean to say, but his train of thought broke upon Snape's appearance in the classroom.

His arrival was silent, but suddenly he was there, like a telephone post you walk straight into. Harry's mouth probably dropped open.

"Potter," Snape called suddenly, and Harry's mouth snapped shut. "Why are you here?"

Wait, what? Had Harry messed up the schedule or something? He glanced around uneasily, noting that this was indeed the right classroom. The creepy jars on the walls with pickled animals sort of gave it away.

Snape sneered at his prolonged silence.

"I can see that your interest in my subject knows no boundaries, Potter." His gaze began to roam the room like the ghosts did the Hogwarts hallways, an uneasy silence taking over the students. Malfoy lifted his hand, smirking covertly. Snape nodded at him.

"I don't know about Potter, Professor, but _I'm_ here to learn."

"We'll see," Snape promised with a pleased glint in his eye. Malfoy gave Harry a supremely condescending side-glance, high-fiving Crabbe and Parkinson victoriously. Meanwhile, Snape had pulled out a slip of parchment and began taking attendance. His tunnel-like eyes fitted over each student in silent appraisal as he did so, pausing at certain names every now and then. His gaze was sometimes inscrutable, others, tinted with mockery.

When he finished taking roll call, Snape tucked the parchment away and paused to survey each and every one of his students. There was a gripping sort of silence, one that the professor seemed to bask in. He took his time, watching a few Gryffindors fidget in the last row, whereupon a chubby boy gave a squeak. Sparing him a disdainful slant, Snape strode across the dungeon.

"In my class, you will learn to blend those ingredients carelessly strewn across your desks into a brew infinitely more useful. You will learn potions, which entail the dexterity and precision of a science, and the ingenious intuition known only to art." Snape paused, giving them all a withering look. Especially to the gryffindors. "I don't expect you will ever come to appreciate the complexity layered in the swirling depths of a cauldron, nor manage a truly succinct brewing, an utterly precise preparation… Potions have been the downfall of many a fool who considered harebrained enchantments the only thing there is to magic; they are a subtle snare, you do not need a wand to kill a man. It is potions, and potions only, which will inveigle your reason and mesmerize your mind, coursing through your veins, bewitching your blood. In my class, you will learn to distinguish the deadly from the innocuous, might come to stir a cauldron of iridescent prestige, or even hazard to bend death by its spine. But only if you aren't even half as driveling," Snape paused to look at Harry, "as you appear to be."

The room broke into whispers, but the potions master silenced them with an acidic look. "We will begin by brewing a boil-curing potion." He waited for a beat, in which everybody stared at him expectantly. "Well?" Snape sneered. "Why aren't you looking that up in your book?" The class scrambled to find whatever he was talking about and was quickly filled in silence as the students hunched over the text.

Snake broke the silence again: "Potter, why aren't you paired up? Think you're above us peasants, do you?"

Glancing away from his book, Harry saw a few Slytherins snickering at his distress. Snape was still looking at him, and Harry surmised that he truly wanted an answer to his inquiry. His throat felt raw as he spoke:

"No one sat down next to me." The admission stung, and so did the boiling embarrassment creeping up Harry's neck.

Snape appeared to relish in it. "Longbottom," he called snidely. "Pair up with Potter."

The chubby, blond boy who had squeaked earlier stood up shiftily and moved his things to Harry's desk. Following that, students started getting up to approach the supply closet for ingredients, settling their cauldrons and so forth. Harry figured that he could try to introduce himself to his new desk-mate, even though he was a Gryffindor.

"Hey," Harry whispered. "Nice to meet you."

The boy looked up with a start.

"Hi," he replied timidly. "I'm Neville."

"Harry." He grinned a little. "So, er, are you any good at potions?"

Neville shrugged helplessly, and both he and Harry soon began to work.

After the first five minutes, it had become apparent that no, neither Harry nor Neville were even passable at potions, though that might have something to do with their professor. During the entire course of the lesson, Snape swept trough the rows of struggling students, watching them intently as they weighed dried nettles or crushed snake fangs, criticizing everyone except for Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. It was amazing how he could one minute be praising the blonde and the next second curse Harry and Neville to the depths of hell, which is where Harry was starting to feel like with the heat of his cauldron building on his face and the snickers crowing all around when Snape decided to single him out. Harry thought he had finally gotten some reprieve, (Snape was just telling the class to look at the perfect way Malfoy had stewed his horned slugs) when clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Harry gave a start when something awful stung him, jumping for cover onto the desk behind him, and somehow tipping over a cauldron on it. Behind him, one of the Gryffindors let out a shout of outrage, but it soon turned into terror, for Neville had somehow managed to melt Harry's cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people's shoes. Within seconds, the whole class had evacuated to the top of their stools or desks while Neville, who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

"Idiot boy!" snarled Snape, clearing the two spilled potions away with one wave of his wand. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose. "Take him up to the hospital wing," Snape spat at the read-head whose potion Harry had ruined. Then he rounded on Harry himself. "Potter! Why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Thought you'd save yourself and no one else, did you? And while you were at it, ruin Weasley's potion? That's a week's worth of detention for you."

* * *

"I'm sorry, Neville," Harry muttered, abated, when the blonde returned at the end of the lesson to fetch his things. His face was mercifully boil-free, though that hadn't kept Snape from delivering a five-minute-long tirade about mole-like dunderheads who insisted on hassling him. "Snape's problem, whatever it is, is with me. You shouldn't have to shoulder it too." Neville seemed close to tears and thus failed to provide a coherent response. Malfoy, on the other hand, seemed close to tears of laughter.

"I suppose not everyone has the talent to get an outstanding," he crooned loudly as he passed their desk. Harry clenched his jaw furiously, but kept silent. Silence was something he would have to learn in the house of snakes.

 **A/N:**

 **So… how was it? Comment, read and review!**


	5. The Ban

**Before anything… I realize some of you might be confused by a few OCs that appeared in the previous chapter.**

 **That's understandable.**

 **As far as I'm aware, HP fics usually stick to canonical characters only. However, Rowling herself said in an interview that, theoretically, there are around 30-35 students in every house per year (according to the total number of divided) and she also said that class arrangements are only shared between houses in subjects which require special attention from the teacher (ie. potions).**

 **So with this being said, I don't have much of a choice but to add to the original cast. Things wouldn't be really believable if I said there are only 5 known Slytherins. It worked for Rowling because Harry was rather cocooned by his two close friends, but in this one, he's gonna make friendships in all four houses.**

 **I hope you'll understand! One way or another, I'll just be adding to the cast. Canon characters will of course play important roles, so all is well.**

 **Without further ado, let's move on to The Ban.**

The next few days provided a respite for Harry, as potions was only on Tuesdays and Fridays. Herbology, which the Slytherins coursed with the Ravenklaws, was taught by a slightly chubby and very cheerful witch, Pomona Sprout, and Harry found that it was quite a relaxing class. Theodore Nott had set to re-potting a plant at his right, and a Ravenklaw called Terry Boot was fiddling with it by his left, and for the first time, Harry didn't have to bear Malfoy's insults at some point during the lesson.

The double period of transfiguration after lunch was as terrible as the Slytherins had feared, but Harry enjoyed seeing others do better than Malfoy up for once. Transfigurations and Charms were both subjects imparted to all of the first-year Slytherins at once, which meant that people like Gethen Everett, Adrienne Raynen, or Thana and Shivani Spaulding were there to show Malfoy up at every corner! Unfortunately, Harry noted that many of his classmates were leaps and bounds ahead of him, as their parents had lent them their wands for practice over the years.

As for Theodore Nott, he still remained silent as a grave during class, even though Harry was convinced that he knew many of the answers to the hardest questions.

Astronomy was a pretty boring subject overall, but there was at least a practical lesson at midnight on Wednesdays, one that was shared with the Hufflepuffs. Harry found it a strangely peaceful affair, even though there was a girl next to him (Lily Moon, or something) who appeared to harbor a strange hero-worship toward him, and was constantly peering at Harry from behind her telescope while her friend Leanne whispered into her ear.

Unlike astronomy, history of magic was an entirely theoretic subject, and unfortunately, it seemed that the boredom overflow which had nearly drowned the Slytherins to death on Monday was not an exception, and neither was the ghost who taught the class in a dreadful mutter. The only one who seemed to enjoy it was Zeno Wordsworth, who would spend the lessons preaching to Zabini about some historical event or other while Zabini ignored his existence.

It was over the span of the first three days that Harry observed cliques had already begun to form in Slytherin. There was Malfoy's group, who had his henchmen Crabbe and Goile follow him around everywhere, something which Zeno had tried to do as well – though Malfoy wasn't as appreciative of his clinging. Unfortunately, Theo Nott seemed to belong to Malfoy's circle of influence as well, which meant that, even though he kept mostly to himself, Harry's tentative attempts to befriend Nott had turned out terribly.

There were other groups among the Slytherins, sure, but not even the outcasts seemed particularly keen on befriending him. There were all sorts of suspicious characters, too, such as Nerezza Runcorn, or a group of girls who spent their time performing demonic rituals in the common room. Harry had been curious at first, and asked the three if he could participate – grave mistake. The lot of them had been forced to relocate to an empty classroom in the dungeons when Gemma Farley had caught them painting on the floor, as though it hadn't been quite creepy enough without the dreary candles, strange chalk symbols, and, to Harry's horror, the beheading of spiders and wayward rats. The point had been to chant obscure litanies which involved offering the beheaded spiders to someone called 'Lord Paimon'. Harry truly didn't want to know who _that_ was, but he had been scared enough when the spiders promptly disappeared and the candles blew out without warning. Needles to say, he had fles the room without a backward glance. (His overture of friendship to Akeldama, Desdemona and Lilith had ended there.)

But they weren't the only Slytherins who obsessed with weird rituals. There were two brothers, Cygnus and Crux Appleston, who were also into making obscure offerings, but in this case, offerings which involved blood. Their friend Dorado Redclay wasn't any better, for he seemed to love 'games' which somehow involved a chance of getting burned o singed. The only sane person of their group appeared to be Lynx Livingstone – because Harry still wasn't entirely sure whether Gethen Everett was normal or not. (Everett was apparently Runcorn's cousin, and that said a lot about him already.)

However, even Livingstone had an obsession: quidditch. It was a magical sport played on brooms, and apparently, there even was a quidditch cup at Hogwarts. Flying lessons started on Thursday, and not even the fact that half of them would have to share them with the Gryffindors seemed to damper Livingstone's spirits, for he apparently loved flying more than anything. Malfoy, too, regaled them all with tales of his escaping muggle helicopters on a broomstick, and Harry started feeling very queasy at the thought of making a fool out of himself come Thursday.

At twenty past three that day, Harry's half of the Slytherins (the ones who went with him to potions) all filed out of the dungeons and out of the castle, where their first Flying lesson would be taking place. Unbeknownst to Harry, it would also be his last.

"Perfect weather conditions," said Malfoy appreciatively as he strutted through the lawn. "Though a storm would be nothing for me, either way."

Blearily, Harry wished that he was in the group with Livingstone, Everett and Redclay, who would be having the lesson with the Ravenklaws later on. Malfoy's presence was not exactly a treat.

As it was, the Slytherins marched down the sloping lawns and across the grass with Malfoy at the forefront of it all and the forbidden forest at their backs. Finally, they reached a flat streak of lawn, where the grass wasn't too tall and very green, swaying lightly to the lilt of the wind. Brooms were spread out in two lines on the floor. There were twenty in total.

It took the Gryffindors another five minutes to show up, and another three to finally lign up next to a prospective broom. No sooner had they all picked one, a witch, which Harrry had heard was the quidditch referee, arrived.

Her name was Madam Hooch, and she reminded Harry of a hawk, what with her yellow eyes, aquiline nose and short gray hair. Her movements were brisk, and she appeared to be impatient to start.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."

Harry glanced down at his broom. It was old and some of the twigs stuck out at odd angles.

"Stick out your right hand over your broom," called Madam Hooch at the front, "and say 'Up!"'

"UP!" everyone shouted.

Harry's broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Nott's broom rolled over, as though trying to flee, and Neville's hadn't moved at all. Perhaps brooms, like horses, could tell when you were afraid, thought Harry; there was a quaver in Neville's voice that said only too clearly that he wanted to keep his feet on the ground. Nott didn't seem particularly keen on taking off into the sky either, and as for Zabini, he had no intentions to entrust his life to an old stick, he said. However, he and his broom quickly changed their minds when Malfoy's broom made it to the blonde's waiting hand, and even Nott seemed to throw caution to the wind after seeing that most of the Gryffindors eventually managed, too.

Madam Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips.

Harry (and he had a feeling that Zabini too) were both particularly delighted when she told Malfoy he'd been doing it wrong for years.

"Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard," said Madam Hooch. "Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle – three – two –"

But Neville, nervous and jumpy and frightened of being left on the ground, pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips.

"Come back, boy!" she shouted, but Neville was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle – twelve feet – twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and – WHAM – a thud and a nasty crack and Neville lay face-down on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight. Madam Hooch was bending over Neville, her face as white as his.

"Broken wrist," Harry heard her mutter. "Come on, boy – it's all right, up you get."

She turned to the rest of the class.

"None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say 'Quidditch.' Come on, dear."

Neville, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madam Hooch, who had her arm around him.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Malfoy burst into laughter.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

Pansy, Bullstrode, Crabbe and Goile joined in.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped one of the gryffindor girls.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Parkinson. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati."

"Look!" said Malfoy, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. "It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

Harry had seen Neville's happy countenance when an owl had given it to him during breakfast, and then, his pained, defenseless expression from just a few minutes ago flashed before his eyes.

"Give that here, Malfoy," he said quietly. Everyone stopped talking to watch.

"Don't tell me you've stooped this low, Potter!" laughed Parkinson. "Is Longbottom the best you can do?"

Malfoy smiled nastily. "Afraid so, Pansy. Not that it matters." He began tossing the red, crystalline sphere up and down. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find – how about – up a tree?"

"Give it here!" Harry yelled, but Malfoy had leapt onto his broomstick and taken off. He hadn't been lying, he could fly well. Hovering level with the topmost branches of an oak he called, "Come and get it, Potter!"

Harry grabbed his broom.

"Idiot!" hissed Zabini next to him. Nott, too, gave him a look that clearly said what he was about to do was stupid, but in that moment, Harry didn't care. Unlike them, Neville had actually been nice to him. Blood was pounding in his ears. He mounted the broom and kicked hard against the ground and up, up he soared; air rushed through his hair, and his robes whipped out behind him – and in a rush of fierce joy he realized he'd found something he could do without being taught – this was easy, this was wonderful. He pulled his broomstick up a little to take it even higher, and heard screams and gasps of girls back on the ground and a boisterous cheer from Nerezza Runcorn.

He turned his broomstick sharply to face Malfoy in midair. Malfoy looked stunned.

"Give it here," Harry called, "or I'll knock you off that broom!"

"Oh, yeah?" said Malfoy, trying to sneer, but looking worried.

Harry knew, somehow, what to do. He leaned forward and grasped the broom

tightly in both hands, and it shot toward Malfoy like a javelin. Malfoy only just got out of the way in time; Harry made a sharp about-face and held the broom steady.

"No Crabbe and Goyle up here to save your neck, Malfoy," Harry called.

The same thought seemed to have struck Malfoy.

"Catch it if you can, then!" he shouted, and he threw the glass ball high into the air and streaked back toward the ground. Harry saw, as though in slow motion, the ball rise up in the air and then start to fall. He leaned forward and pointed his broom handle down – next second he was gathering speed in a steep dive, racing the ball – wind whistled in his ears, mingled with the screams of people watching – he stretched out his hand – a foot from the ground he caught it, just in time to pull his broom straight, and he toppled gently onto the grass with the ball clutched safely in his fist.

"HARRY POTTER!"

His heart sank faster than he'd just dived. Professor McGonagall was running toward them. He got to his feet, trembling.

"Never – in all my time at Hogwarts –"

Professor McGonagall was almost speechless with shock, and her glasses flashed furiously, "– how dare you – might have broken your neck –"

The lawn was drenched in abysmal silence, and Harry suddenly felt so, so alone.

"I was – I wasn't trying to break any rules, Professor –"

"That's enough, Potter, follow me, now."

Harry caught sight of Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle's triumphant faces as he left, walking numbly in Professor McGonagall's wake as she strode toward the castle. He was going to be expelled, he just knew it. He wanted to say something to defend himself, but there seemed to be something wrong with his voice. Professor McGonagall was sweeping along without even looking at him; he had to jog to keep up. Now he'd done it. He hadn't even lasted two weeks. He'd be packing his bags in ten minutes. What would the Dursleys say when he turned up on the doorstep?

Up the front steps, down to the dungeons and still Professor McGonagall didn't say a word to him. She wrenched open doors and marched along corridors with Harry trotting miserably behind her. He was certain, at this point, that she was taking him to see Snape.

Suddenly, McGonagall came to a drastic halt and rounded on Harry, who caught himself just in time.

"P – Professor?"

"Alright, Potter. As I am not your head of house, the decision doesn't befall me… however, let it be said that you…"

'Please don't say "that you're expelled!"' thought Harry frantically. 'Please, please, please!'

"You very much resemble your father, Mr Potter."

Harry chocked.

"E – eh?"

McGonagall was looking at him intently, a curious look behind her spectacles, and Harry found himself at a loss on what to say. Finally, he ventured:

"You knew my dad?"

"Yes, yes I did. He was an amazing quidditch player, a trait you seem to have inherited. If you were in my house, I dare say that you would be in the team already."

It wasn't even that high a praise, but Harry was very moved. His dad had been amazing, surely.

Suddenly, a cutting voice. "Was there something you needed, Minerva?" They'd been interrupted by Snape, who had come out of the door McGonagall stopped in front of, and was giving them a positively acidic stare. Harry edgily wondered whether he had heard them talk.

"Yes, Severus," snapped McGonagall. "I have witnessed _both_ Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter make use of their brooms without supervision –"

"Then prey tell, where is Mr Malfoy?"

McGonagall seemed to realize that Malfoy was, in fact, elsewhere.

"At the lawn."

"I see," said Snape, his tunnel-like eyes fixed on Harry. "I'll take it from here. In, Potter."

And Harry dreadfully walked into his office.

In the long minutes that followed, Snape didn't say anything about joining the quidditch team. Instead, he gave Harry prolongued detention, while Malfoy's only punishment was to write a ten inch essay.

"Ah, before you leave, Potter," Snape called. "Due to your harebrained actions, you'll be banned from flying lessons for the rest of the year."


	6. The Duel

It wasn't until October that Harry got a taste of what real trouble felt like. It all began innocently enough, with Malfoy and Redclay complaining loudly about something called the 'dueling club', which was exclusive to third year Slytherins and above only, hence the source of their discontent. As it happened, every Slytherin in Harry's year was obsessed with joining; even the meek Tracey Davis looked dejected at the restriction. In short, everyone was interested, including asocial creatures such as Theo Nott and Gethen Everett, which was already a miracle in itself. It might be a good way to befriend the reclusive Theo, thought Harry, though so far he hadn't sat with anyone during dueling nights.

These very special soirées took place on the weekends, where Snape, as they said, often shut himself in his private lab and ignored their existence – something which was perfectly fine by Harry. It was bad enough that he'd spent the last few weekends going to detention with the mad housekeeper and his dreary, old cat, while Malfoy sat placidly in the common room and made comments concerning Harry's resemblance to house elves.

Despite his sometimes overlapping detention, Harry had still managed to spectate on a few duels. Most of them featured cocky upperclassmen showing off their skills in order to hex one another. Conveniently, the most successful duelers tended to be intrinsically more popular, which was probably why everyone was so intent on participating – even Harry could see that. Still, he harbored the suspicion that come their chance to shine, most of his classmates would quickly begin to avoid partaking in the action. Also, Malfoy's alleged skills in compulsion charms might turn out to be invented.

As the common room was divided into two levels, it was easy for the prefects to clean out the lower one and set it up as dueling arena, while the spectators gathered in the rather cramped upper level to watch the altercations. Harry had to say that he enjoyed these moments, watching the strongest of their house pit their mad skills against one other. Some students were truly amazing with their wands, that was for sure.

Gemma Farley, to Harry's surprise, was one of them. When she wasn't busy with her manicure or her various and interchangeable boyfriends, Gemma could wipe the floor with anyone. She looked positively savage when she dueled, her red curls bouncing all over the place. On that particular October Sunday, Gemma had just done in her own cousin, and as usual had shown no mercy. It would be best to avoid Gemma at all costs when annoyed, noted Harry nervously.

Though she wasn't the only one with stage presence. There was a third year who had quite the victory streak himself, despite having just begun dueling. Harry very much doubted that he'd be capable of winning like that after only three years at Hogwarts. The third year, as impressive as his witty spell casting was, clearly didn't hold a candle to the seventh years, whose fights were always the most spectacular to watch, though not necessarily the most one sided.

Harry often wondered why Snape allowed the clandestine dueling club to go on. It was hard to say whether he even knew about it – he never even visited the common room – but it was also hard to imagine a clueless Snape.

So lost was Harry in his musings, that the sudden calling of his name completely startled him.

"I'm talking to you, glorious Boy Who Lived!" It was Gemma Farley's cousin. "All heil Potter, our hero!" Quite a few Slytherins exploded into roaring laughter. "C'm down here, won't ya, Harry Potter. I'll take you on. Did you hear that, folks? I'm dueling Harry Potter! " A strange excitement ran through the crowd, the expectance palpable.

Harry froze. They forbade first years to fight, but now they pressured him into it?

Right on cue, the Slytherins parted like the Red Sea, leaving a passage to Gemma's cousin, and someone pushed Harry forward. He didn't even know what name the boy had, but he definitely didn't want to take him on.

Harry glanced around wildly. Where were the prefects? Even Snape would be welcome, and that was saying something. But one of them was present: there was Gemma Farley, chatting with another girl and sparing them barely a side glance. And then it hit Harry: he would have to speak up himself, for no one else was going to stop the madness.

"I… I don't think I can duel."

"Please! Aren't you the vanquisher of the Dark Lord? Allegedly? You must've some trick up your sleeve, Potter."

Harry hesitated. He wasn't special. He didn't know any useful spells. And this wasn't Dudley, he couldn't run away.

"Sorry, but I'll pass."

"Oh? Is Harry Potter scared?" Everyone was drinking in his hesitation, Harry felt.

"I'm not, I'll duel you when I'm in third year, if you still want to."

Instead of placating, the remark only incensed Gemma's cousin further.

"The nerve! You would take me on as a seventh year, Potter? Well, I'll make it easier for ya, come down here now for a prelude."

Harry walked forward slowly, mostly because the people behind were pushing him, but he stopped abruptly upon reaching the three steps to the lower level. He didn't want to do this.

"I can see you quivering, Potter!" taunted the boy.

Harry worked his jaw.

"I'm not quivering!"

"Yes, you are. Like… like a scared rodent. Better yet, like a rabbit!" He grinned. "Ladies and gentleman, I let me introduce you to… Potter Bunny!"

Slytherins left and right attempted to drown Harry in a sea of cackles, but it was his anger that pushed him over the edge, or rather, over the steps.

"Ready to grow buck teeth, Potter Bunny?" The odious twat was clearly enjoying the attention. Harry looked at him more closely: Gemma's cousin had the same grey eyes as her, and dark, raven hair, though the whole aura about him was different from her cool indifference; there was a sort of nervous energy about him that made Harry think drastic thoughts.

"You know how this goes, no, Bunny?"

Harry replied with furious silence.

Yes, he did know. They'd bow to each other, and then they would cross wands – no physical contact allowed. He knew also, in the back of his mind, that this was a terrible, terrible idea, but then he was bowing and—

"Riktumsempra!" A spell the color of sour melons shot out of the boy's wand, and Harry just managed to dodge. He brandished his own wand, trying to think of something, but there was no time to think, Gemma's cousin was on the offensive with:

"Expeliarmus! Impedimenta!"

Harry dodged the first spell, but the second hit him in the arm, and he was thrown backwards with the force of Aunt Marge's bulldogs mid-charge.

"Relashio!"

The next spell missed (apparently aiming wasn't easy) and Harry took the chance to stand back up. He wasn't thinking anymore, his mind completely awhir.

"HAAA!" he shouted intelligibly, wiping his wand forward. His usual golden and vermillion sparks were a storm of garish light this time, a hurricane of Harry's fury and panic; a very effective hurricane, for the boy jumped back, as though signed.

"Relashio!" he shouted again, urgent. "Relashio! Relashio!"

One of them hit Harry square in the chest, and his wand fell from his hand.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

An indigo-colored curse shot out of the boy's wand and Harry felt it approach as though in slow motion, but slower was his own body. The feeling of a foreign presence controlling him assaulted Harry in a heartbeat, and suddenly he'd clambered up; legs and arms clapped together like a plank. He fell to the floor painfully.

"Potter's down!"

"…crushing defeat…!"

The rest was drowned out by the sudden chaos in the common room and the chaos in Harry's mind. His limbs were irresponsive. What was happening? He couldn't see but the ceiling!

"…he's hyperventilating…"

"…hospital wing…"

"…disgrace for our house…"

"…out of line…"

When he woke up again, he was in a white room quickly identified as the nurses' office. Harry stirred, as did the memories of recent events.

"Alright?"

He glanced up, into the kind face of what he supposed must be Madam Pompfrey, the school nurse. Harry gave a curt nod, though his mind was far away.

"You were hit by a paralyzing curse," said Madam Pompfrey. Ah, that explained the lack of cooperation he'd felt from his limbs. He hadn't been able to defend himself; the duel had ended before the warm-up did. It was in that moment that Harry decided he'd never let himself be hit by that indigo curse again. He glanced out of the window, noting the beautiful view. It was dusk.

Harry sat up without losing a second.

"I have to go," he said. Or he'd be late for detention, something he wouldn't wish upon anyone.

"Already? I agree that it's nothing serious, but a bit of rest would do you wonders, I say."

"It's fine." Harry stood up.

"Now wait just a second, you! How is it that you were hit by a third year level curse? You don't look a day over eleven, young man."

Harry snorted at the expression. Should he tell? Tattletales I can't abide, Uncle Vernon always said, not under my roof. Harry had stopped complaining when Dudley hit him after that.

If he ratted out his housemate, the whole dueling club affair would blow up in everyone's faces, and they would all hate him for it. Harry said:

"Just a friendly scuffle, nothing serious."

By the time he had reached the door, Madam Pomfrey's lips had disappeared in a thin line. Harry didn't like to lie, but he had grown up with the habit. He told untruths to get out of trouble.

"Thanks for all the help, Madam Pomprey," he said at length.

"You're very welcome, Mr Potter. You may repay me in kind by making certain you won't need it again."

Yes, he would avoid the dueling club from now on. Harry promised he would make certain. It wouldn't be too difficult, considering his weekend detentions.

Right on cue, the following hours were spent scrubbing trophies under the watchful eye of Filch and his cat, wishing dreadful happenings upon Snape, or alternatively, imagining Snape might rescind his punishment, and that he'd be able to dive into the sky again, to attend flying lessons and help Neville with his broom handling, that way he could repay him for the trouble they got into in potions.

But something distracted him: it was an award for special services to the school. In shining letters, it read:

 _ **LILY MAGNOLIA EVANS.**_

Harry paused. He knew that name. Very intimately, though he didn't remember when he'd been told. Told that Lily Magnolia Potter neé Evans was his mother. His mum! He scrubbed the award right above it for as long as Filch tolerated, staring starry-eyed at his mum's name on the plaque.

"Ya finished with that?" barked Filch, nodding at the award Harry had been mindlessly scrubbing. "Bit more and you'll erode the inscription."

Tom M. Riddle could erode all he cared to, Harry certainly didn't. Grudgingly, he put the polished plaque down and moved to the next he could find close to that of his mom. He would merrily keep scrubbing all night like this, he thought.

The following morning, Harry wasn't feeling nearly as cheerful. The previous nightly disaster hung over him like a murderous noose, and the whispered commentary of his housemates made sure to keep it a constant in his mind.

Harry struggled through the whole first period of transfiguration (turning nozzles into firewood) and got glared at by McGonagal for melting his project four times in a row. He was too distracted to go on like this.

Yet he regained hope for himself in Defense Against the Dark Arts next period. The plan was simple: he could just ask Profesor Quirrel for practical help after class. With this in mind, Harry waited patiently (dubiously) until the man announced (stuttered) the awaited end of the lesson. Unfortunately, many of the students lingered for a while and it took a few minutes until Harry and Quirrel were left alone.

"Professor…"

Quirrel turned toward him. "C-can I help you, M-Mr Potter?"

Harry took a deep breath. "Yes. I–" How could he phrase it? "–I need a spell to defend myself. Nothing dangerous or anything. Just… er…" Awkward silence greeted him, together with a blank-faced defense teacher. Whatever had possessed him to ask? Terrible idea! Harry was already getting a headache.

Quirrel regarded him for another minute, then replied jerkily: "That could be arranged, M-Mr Potter. But I have another class about to–"

"Please sir, I just need a name! If you could point me in the right direction, that would be enough."

"The disarming charm then." Quirrel stared at him fixedly. "O-one has to channel a strong magical intent into the spell… 'Expeliarmus' the incantation goes. The strength of a p-prospective wizard is often m-measured by his affinity to it."

Expeliarmus. Expeliarmus. Harry fixed the word into his mind.

Without warning, the door swung open.

"…woops. Sorry to disturb, Profesor …and Potter?" said a boyish voice. "I forgot to knock first and all that. Today's Monday though, isn't it?" Harry realized he knew the brunette standing by the doorstep: it was the third year he'd seen at the dueling club.

Quirrel gave a startled wave. "You're w-welcome to come in, M-Mr Niz-zzam-mmu…t-t–"

Laughing, the boy moseyed into the classroom. "It's okay, sir," he said sheepishly. "I get that pretty often. My surname's messed up, as far as surnames go. Of Russian descent and all that."

Quirrel nodded nervously, then turned back to Harry. "W-well, Mr P-Potter, I t-trust you won't p-practice the disarming charm on your own?"

Harry gave an absent nod – a lie; he knew that he would have to.

"Hey, looks like I'm your man then," said the boy, winking conspiratorially. "Guinea pig, rather. Let's kill some time till class starts."

"Mr Nizam-m-mu-!"

Niza-whatever waved Quirrel off. "It's still a bit till our next class, Professor…" he encouraged, shrugging, "and the Expeliarmus is a harmless incantation – though pretty cool for a first year's arsenal. I say you give it a shot, Harry. What do you think?"

Quirrel remained silent, which Harry took as permission to proceed. He gave a determined nod and pulled out his wand, though he was feeling worried he'd make a fool out of himself. On the other end of the classroom, the third year waved cheekily.

"Give it your all, Mr Bunny!"

Harry's anger had flared at the name, though he knew Niza had said it only jokingly. One way or another, he had better be prepared.

"EXPELIARMUS!"

A beam of garnet red burst towards Niza like a racehorse on steroids. The third year had barely time to flinch – without warning, his wand sprung from his hand and crashed against the blackboard, making Professor Quirrel give a startled leap to the side.

"No kidding, Harry!"

Niza crossed the room and gave Harry a bemused head ruffle. He'd seriously done that? It felt surreal. Harry felt vaguely embarrassed at the gesture, but Niza was already fishing behind the teacher's desk in search of his wand.

In the meantime, Quirrel seemed to have gathered his wits back. "O-outstanding work, Potter."

Harry grinned. The realization was starting to hit him: he was no longer defenseless! "Thanks." He glanced also at his improvised assistant, who had emerged from behind the desk and gave him a salute.

"I'll… er… show myself out then," said Harry.

"Wait!" Niza approached him in a few strides and leaned forward. Harry tensed, but then realized that the other simply wanted to whisper in his ear.

"Just between us, a word of advice. Don't pick another fight with Aiden – he's a resentful old lobster, that one; you don't want to be on his black list."

Aiden Farley, hm? Harry had always liked that name – until now. He gave the third year a nod.

"But I will defend myself if he tries something."

"Of course." Niza nodded, though he seemed disinterested in further pursuing the subject and ambled over to a desk.

Turning way from the first nice Slytherin he had yet encountered (of course he wasn't in Harry's year, of course) Harry shouldered his knapsack and beat it out of there. For the first time since term had started (for the first time since ever, actually) things were finally looking up, even if just a bit.

 **New update for you, folks! Tell me… how was it? Bet you weren't expecting this under 'The Duel', huh? ;)**


	7. Misunderstanding

"Absolutely not, Potter."

Profesor Snape didn't even let Harry finish talking. He had been desperate enough to go to his head of house to request Snape rethink his punishment – to lift Harry's ban from flying lessons – but it was not to be. Nothing Harry said seemed to get through to Snape.

He wanted so badly to rejoin the flying lessons! Harry had instantly loved the feeling of weightlessness and freedom – would love even more the chance to be in a quidditch team – just like his dad! – but how could he if Snape didn't allow him near a broom?

"Malfoy also rode a broom without permission–!" tried Harry again, a last meager ditch-attempt.

"As I understand, Potter, Mr Malfoy did not attempt a twenty foot vertical dive the moment he mounted it."

"But–"

"I remain by what I said, Potter. You're getting no special treatment from me – that I assure you." Snape glared him down for good measure, looking rather like a ferocious panther in the process.

Well, Harry wasn't having it. This was personal. This was about his dad.

"The way I see it, I _am_ getting special treatment!"

"And who is the fool handing it out? Prey tell."

"You. You're unfair to a fault, even to Neville! …just for sitting next to me, which was arranged by _you_ –"

"Potter!" Snape's face had gone white, and Harry imagined if he were a dog, his tail would be raised ramrod straight in warning like a red flag. "Out of my office!"

"What about–?"

"Out!"

It was on a dejected note that Harry trotted out of Snape's bureau, though honestly, what had he been expecting? His success with the Expeliarmus had emboldened him enough to try and talk to Snape, but now Harry's mood was down in the dumps again.

By the time he managed to get out of bed the next morning, Harry felt even worse. A good breakfast might do him some good, he reckoned. But if he had been counting on a pleasurable experience, Harry was sorely disappointed. The Slytherins ignored his very existence, provided they weren't looking down their noses at him or gossiping. Harry was at his wits' end and it wasn't even the weekend yet.

"Can someone pass me an apple?" he asked once, then again, louder, yet no one even looked his way. He knew their game, the Dursleys were masters of it, but it was even more hurtful when unaccounted for.

Hardening his heart, Harry stood up and grabbed two apples himself. He ate one of them, too, though he felt sick to the stomach. The other he stuck into his pocket, just to spite Pansy Parkinson, who wanted an apple as well.

Leaving the great hall on that miserable note, Herbology proved to be even more disastrous when Profesor Sprout cheerfully announced that they were to pair up with someone for the remainder of the year so as to study a plant of their choice.

Just what he needed, another repeat of potions class.

Harry looked hopefully to his right – and realized with relish that Theo Nott was covertly studying him as well.

"Hey, Nott." Out of nowhere came Malfoy. "Care to pair up with me? I know a tone of these plants from potions, and I have a feeling you know your fair share as well." He smirked. "After all, great minds think alike."

Nott eyed Crabbe and Goile right behind them, who were trying to kill a stray slug. "And stupid ones too, it seems."

Malfoy barked out a laugh. "You know, that theory might be worth looking into." And suddenly he was leering at Harry with intent. Harry glared back.

The tension was interrupted when Theo cleared his throat. "As for the plant of our choice… any ideas?"

Malfoy turned back toward him. "I was thinking aconite, if you don't mind."

Theo shrugged. Harry remembered seeing him stare intently at a cacti-like plant with rainbow colored spikes, but Theo didn't mention it. Harry felt betrayed somehow.

He didn't want to see Malfoy's petulant face even a second longer, so he turned to his left – just as the Ravenclaw next to him, Terry Boot, did the same.

Terry gave Harry a sheepish grin. Harry smiled back and shrugged.

"Heya, Harry. Care to pair up?"

"Sounds good." A pause. Harry cast around for something to talk about. "What plant should we pick?"

Terry shrugged.

"Something extraordinary."

"I think I saw a really cool cacti earlier," supplied Harry, remembering.

"Oh, I know what you mean!" exclaimed Terry. "The spikes were multicolored yet extremely thin! And I mean even thinner than those needles McGonagal gave us!"

Harry arched an eyebrow, bemused. "How is _that_ even possible? How can we see the color from afar if they're that thin?"

Terry looked excited to find out. "In any case, let's hurry before someone else picks it for their end of year project!"

The rest of the lesson passed quickly. When he walked out of the greenhouse (waving at Terry), Harry felt inexplicably happy. There was definitely some chemistry between them! Finally, he had made a friendly acquaintance. It was a start. Suddenly, the whole Snape ordeal didn't seem so terrible anymore. So what if he couldn't attend Madam Hooch's lessons? He had done just fine on his own. Besides… it wasn't like Snape would know if Harry disobeyed him; he could covertly observe the going-ons during flying lessons and get away with it.

Following that, instead of going to the great hall for lunch, Harry headed en route Forbidden Forest. It was the perfect spot to watch the flying lessons unnoticed. The black trees seemed like an ominous beacon, and, for a second, Harry feared it might be dangerous… but he wouldn't go in deep. It should be fine, he told himself. He just needed cover.

He crossed the last part of the lawn briskly. There were a few clouds over the sky, but it wasn't entirely overcast. It was a windy day too, and Harry hoped that the forest's billowing branches wouldn't attract the gazes of the students on the other side of the lawn.

It didn't take long to reach the edge of the tree line, and Harry didn't know whether to be relieved or scared. Suddenly, he heard voices. Unfortunately, he had been rather careless with his stepping; the voices had heard him too.

Harry's breath hitched. Moving quickly, he whirled around and sprinted into the opposite direction, pulling up his hood in the process.

There were footsteps behind him, giving chase, but they weren't paced as quickly. A few minutes of aimless running later, Harry concluded that he must've given his pursuers the slip. After much deliberation, he decided to wait it out until the flying lesson was over – returning now across the open ground wouldn't help him keep his cover either. Whoever had been around would probably leave soon anyway. Harry fished a remaining apple out of his pocket and began to munch on it.

"Potter? Is that you?" He jumped.

"Livingstone? Redclay?" Harry stared at the two with surprise. "What are _you_ doing here?" So it had been them chasing him.

Livingstone's eyes narrowed. "Should you be the one asking the questions, Potter? We already know why you're here."

"Why?"

"Malfoy told us you'd gone crawling to Snape, begging to be readmitted into flying lessons." Lynx shook his blonde head in amusement. "And Snape told you no, I'm guessing, so you came here anyways, hoping to keep it a secret."

Livingstone's blue eyes were fixed on him attentively. He was being tested, Harry realized. He didn't like to be tested, so he returned the stare defiantly.

What were Lynx and Redclay doing here, he wondered. Their flying lesson didn't take place until later in the evening, yet they seemed to have come here specifically prepared for something. Livingstone was holding a notebook (a muggle notebook?) and most surprising of all, there was a pair of muggle binoculars slung around Redclay's tanned neck.

Suddenly, it clicked. "You're here to watch the flying lesson too…" said Harry with wonder. "How did you get that?"

"Muggle artifacts?" asked Redclay. "Muggle store, duh."

"You know, Potter," said Livingstone, "not all of us are like Malfoy. I don't really mind muggles as long as they don't stick their nose where it doesn't belong."

Redclay nodded importantly. "And they have practical stuff. For example: pens. Or nutcrackers."

Harry decided to ignore the last comment. "Why would you want to watch the flying lesson?" he asked after a moment.

Livingstone looked distinctly uncomfortable. "None of your business."

"That's right! You didn't see Lynx and I here."

Harry studied them thoughtfully. "In that case, you didn't see me either."

Livingstone nodded his acquisition, looking annoyed, but held out his hand for Harry to shake nevertheless. And so they sat down and watched the flying lesson in relative silence. After a while, the atmosphere relaxed a little, and so did Harry. Redclay began fiddling with a muggle lighter and Livingstone was too busy scribbling in his notebook to spare them much attention. When the blonde's back was hunched over the pages, Harry was allowed to borrow the binoculars himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he peered at the notebook. "You're jotting down their flying skills. Why?"

Livingstone frowned. "It's a secret, Potter. I'll tell you but it'll have to stay between us, got it? You don't want me telling Snape I saw you here."

"I won't tell, I promise." Harry glanced at the page, and when Livingstone made no indication to stop him, Harry took a closer look.

"Malfoy? Really?" There were three whole paragraphs on his ability with a broom.

"He's my competition. In quidditch, that is. I want to make the team, he does too… you know how it goes. But to tell you another secret," Livingstone whispered, his eyes gleaming, "I'm way better than him."

Here Redclay chimed in, who until then had been quite busy waving his finger over the tip of a flame. "If anyone deserves to make the team, then it's Lynx here. Best seeker I've ever seen – not counting the professionals, of course."

Lynx scratched his head awkwardly. "Thanks, bud." Then he noticed Harry's stare and asked: "What?"

Harry decided to be blunt. "I'm surprised you're willing to stand up to Malfoy."

Livingstone gave a dry chuckle. "My parents would be too, believe me. For the worse. But that's neither here nor there. I refuse to be Malfoy's ruddy lapdog!"

"I want to make the team too," Harry said at last. No one replied.

The next day was a Friday, and Friday, in one word, meant potions (alternatively, it meant torture). This time, the Slytherins had to brew a hydrating solution, a concoction which Snape had claimed was important. That meant it would be in the exam, probably. It also meant Neville was that much more anxious to get it right, which reflected on his performance. Badly.

"It's supposed to be turning turquoise any second now," said Harry nervously.

Neville chewed on his nails with one hand and stirred the potion with the other, peering at it hopefully – and was that just a nail that had fallen in? – but it remained a foreboding midnight blue. Meanwhile, Harry began to double check the instructions on the blackboard.

"…maybe try adding an extract of aloe?"

Neville jumped from his hocker and dove for the ingredients closet, while Harry dove under the table to pick up the ingredients he had scattered in the process.

That was when Harry saw it: Malfoy, who sat across them, pelted something into their cauldron.

That git! He had been sabotaging their potions all along! Harry's next thought was that it couldn't be – Snape would've noticed something. But then again, what did Snape care? He'd probably secretly award house-points to Malfoy for the orchestration of Harry's failures. Feeling righteous fury, Harry grabbed the first best thing, (which happened to be Malfoy's favorite plant, aconite), and tossed it at the blonde's potion.

The table Harry was crouching under bade sufficient cover from Snape's laser gaze, and neither Crabbe (who had been busy munching on a root) nor Malfoy (who had been busy showing off his flobberworm dicing skills to the class) noticed anything.

Until the potion erupted into green goo.

All in all, it was the first satisfying potions lesson ever, even if Harry and Neville had failed. Misery loves company, after all, and Malfoy had failed too.

"Potter. I _know_ it was you," hissed the blonde as they left the dungeon.

Harry resisted the urge to cackle, though he couldn't help his lifting a sardonic eyebrow.

"My potion was perfect," Malfoy continued. "You ruined it!"

"Like you did ours, you mean?"

"So you admit to tampering with it, Potter?"

"Do you?" shot back Harry.

Malfoy gave him a dark glower. "You'll pay for this."

"Sure I will."

But Harry did pay – the next morning. His glasses were gone from his nightstand when he woke up. His glasses! There was a tiny note where they had rested which said to have fun searching, an endeavor which proved imposible without glasses.

When Harry was finally done combing through his room (and came up with nothing) he allocated the one-man search party to the common room, which was rather empty, for a change, because everyone was basking in the sun outside… something which Harry couldn't do lest he walk into a tree.

"Hey there, Mr Bunny! How's that spell-casting going?"

Harry whirled around. It was the Niza the third year, he thought, judging by the voice, but he couldn't be sure.

"Don't call me that."

There was a beat of silence. "Don't worry, it's all in good fun. How might I make it up to you, Boy-Who-Is-Decidedly-Not-A-Bunny?"

Harry was about to wave him off when he recalled what he had been doing in the first place. He reluctantly explained his problem.

"Your glasses? Sure. There's a spell to summon them, but it's kinda advanced so I can't do it yet. But don't worry, your pal Neil knows just what to do."

Neil, as his name apparently was, took out his wand with a flourish and laid it out horizontally.

"Point me!"

The wand suddenly began spinning in vague reminiscence of a compas, and Neil shot up from his crouch next to Harry.

"This way, let's go! We've got some glasses to find."

Their search carried them across the castle, following the directions of Neil's wand. The third year's enthusiastic attitude reflected upon Harry, and the search turned into something of an adventure.

When they finally found Harry's glasses concealed in the laundry basket, Harry knew all about Neil and his two great enemies, whom he would love to 'catch in their own game' more than anything. On the other hand, Harry had told Neil all about his plans to join the quidditch team and Snape's bullying in potions.

"That Snape…" whistled Neil, shaking his head. "He can't take points from his own house – or refuses to, anyways – so instead he assigns detention to you every chance he gets. Wonder what it says about me that I can understand his twisted reasoning?"

Harry grinned and laughingly told him about the previous potions lesson, on which he'd managed to sabotage Malfoy's work and not get caught.

Neil whooped enthusiastically, causing Profesor Quirrel, who was edging along before them, to jump a mile.

"Sorry, sir!" called the third year suavely, even as he ruffled Harry's hair victoriously. Then, quietly, he added: "Looks like we'll make a Slytherin out of you yet, Harry."

"You're probably the only person who will ever say that and mean it."

"Well, I thought it was downright sneaky of you to get detention during dueling nights just a moment ago – though that probably has more to do with Snape hating you than you planning for a way to be out of the common room during curfew so as to avoid Aiden."

"Do you think Snape knows about the dueling club?" wondered Harry absently.

"For sure! He's a classical Slytherin, our head of house, you know? I heard he's often around the common room without our realizing." He lowered his voice. "Rumor has it Snape's really good at the notice-me-not charm."

"What?" Harry loathed even imagining Snape might be lurking behind him while he peacefully sat in an armchair and relaxed – as far as relaxing went, in Slytherin.

As it happened, Snape was not stalking any first years right that moment. It came close enough, though, because they were the topic of his current conversation. It was the monthly staff meeting, and the teachers were discussing how well the newcomers had settled in.

"I-if I m-may sp-speak?" Everyone turned toward the timid Profesor Quirrel, who normally avoided bringing attention toward himself and had just come in, looking flustered.

"Quirrinus?" prompted Dumbledore.

"O-one of the f-first years d-demanded I t-t-teach him an o-offensive s-spell already and I'm so-sort of unsettled…"

"Now, that mightn't mean anything!" squeaked Flitwick consolingly. "At that age I myself had similar academic curiosities-"

"Y-yes. That is a-also what I thought… and t-taught him the Expeliarmus. O-on his first t-try, he used it t-to… blast a third year ac-across t-the room! He n-nearly shattered his wand!"

Flitwick suddenly didn't look so sure about the perfunctory 'academic curiosity' and neither did the rest of the staff. The usually cheerful Sprout had sobered up and McGonagall's countenance was now inscrutable.

Dumbledore looked like he feared the worst. "May I inquire who…?"

"Harry Potter!" barked out Quirrel. Dumbledore deflated like a ballon. A popped ballon. "Th-that is… i-it was M-Mr P-P-Potter. A-and as y-you know… t-the Expeliarmus requires the imposition of the ca-caster's will upon that of the ta-ta-target… which is… the s-same pr-principle as the i-impe-perius , and I mean the unfo-unforgivable c-cu-curse!" At the mention, Quirrel started shaking violently. Next to him, Sprout regarded the mess of a man sympathetically, while Snape's expression had something sardonic about it.

"Now that is…!" McGonagall had gone as white as the chalk she usually wrote with. "That is quite preposterous! Intent is one of the core fundamentals of magic, period. Nothing to do with the imperious, not by any stretch of the imagination! I myself think Mr Potter merely lacks a little control, that's all. Just the other day, for instance, he melted a sizable chunk of pure metal with only a tap of his wand–"

"…which only attests to the little to no lucidity Potter has – or rather: hasn't," Snape cut in.

"Or perhaps it hints to a large magical core?" McGonagall contested. "We're talking four melted nozzles, Severus! He didn't even look particularly drained afterward!"

"Perhaps you should teach him focus then, instead of praising his foolhardiness."

McGonagall sputtered intelligibly, and looked at Sprout for help. Sprout opened her mouth to exclaim something, but was interrupted by Flitwick.

"If I may venture to judge his character, Mr Potter is, unless I'm terribly mistaken, a quite peaceful lad. Hardly the type to blow away a classmate intentionally, I'd say! Though perhaps a little solitary–"

"Not by intention!" exclaimed Sprout, who looked like she'd burst if she couldn't talk now. She pinned Snape at the end of her stare, looking positively like her favorite plants – that is, venomous. "His housemates refuse to have anything to do with Harry! They're purposely excluding him from everything! Can you believe it? If that were to happen in my house, I'd–"

"Alas, it isn't," Snape said flatly, stilted. Sprout opened and closed her mouth a few times, yet seemed at a loss in the face of his brusqueness. Just then, someone no one had been expecting intervened. Someone who hadn't spoken on behalf of a student since the beginning of time.

"I ain't have no clue about your fizzle-wheedle magic, but this much I can say: if the boy keeps it up, I'll have the whole trophy room sparkling b'fore Christmas."

Everyone stared at the house keeper as he contently petted his cat. Obviously, Filch believed Harry Potter's place in life to be in a broom cupboard.

"Argus! What…?" McGonagall seemed to have momentarily lost a great good deal of her vocabulary.

"Potter has been serving detention," supplied Snape snidely.

"Well, it's clear that it wasn't just once! You're being too hard on him, Severus, and that means something, coming from me!" argued McGonagall.

Snape's eyebrows begged to differ.

"Strange boy, he is, that Potter," carried on Filch. For once he knew something that the teachers didn't. "Kept shinning the same plaque over and over til we snapped him out of it. Strange, strange, ain't he, Mrs Norris?"

Mrs Norris purred.

"Looks like Potter was doing his best to be unhelpful even in repentance," observed Snape.

"I dunno about that, Mr!" crowed Filch. "Kept eyeballing the same plaque the whole night. He even stayed extra just to keep at it! That ain't unhelpful, no, but odd."

"What plaque, Argus?" asked Dumbledore, looking even more unsettled. "Not Tom's, per chance…?"

The room had gone suddenly quiet. Even Bins had zoned in.

"An award. Special services, it says. Special services to Lily Magnolia Evans! I checked."

Abysmal silence. McGonagal very discretely wiped her face. Dumbledore looked relieved. Flitwick mourned on top of his high pile of books. The divination teacher nodded sagely, as though she'd known all along.

"As far as I can see," ventured Sprout finally, "Harry isn't the type to deserve getting severely punished. His housemates, however…"

"So then?" Snape now looked positively vicious. "Let me reiterate that Potter's house is Slytherin, not Hufflepuff, as preposterous as that may seem-"

"Now, now, let us all calm down," interrupted Dumbledore, regarding Snape significantly. Snape gave him a fulminating look, which the headmaster ignored artfully. "It's certainly not up to us to tell you how to do your job, Severus," he glanced at McGonagall, "nor to pass judgement upon Harry's character–" then at Flitwick, "or his classmates," he ended by looking at Sprout. The teachers nodded. "And as for his requesting to learn a spell, Quirrinus, it's the teacher's hand which guides the pupil's wand. That is something I always tried to keep in mind during my tenure as an instructor. Now, on another, happier, note, it is getting a little late, I'm afraid. What do you say we adjourn the meeting?"

"Agreed," said Snape tartly and got up at once. He paused to give Quirrel a withering look, as though everything had been his fault, and turned tail to quit the room. McGonagall spared him a disgruntled eye-roll and pinched her nose, though gathered her things also. Flitwick was busy climbing down the stack of books he'd procured for himself and Sprout was already in cheerful conversation with Profesor Babbling, who was babbling.

Come Monday, Harry babbled to Madam Pompfrey just as well, who saw right through his excuses.

"The bat boguey hex, huh? Who was it this time, Mr Potter? Or was it another friendly scuffle?"

It had been Pansy Parkinson, actually. Many of the Slytherins in Harry's year had followed Aiden's lead and started attacking him when he least expected it, and never to let down, Parkinson was at the forefront of it all.

Harry sighed. He was just about to admit it had been Parkinson when Madam Pompfrey shook her head and told him to come to her when he was ready. Harry closed his mouth, waved, and trudged back into the common room. He didn't even have time to collapse on a couch before Gemma Farley tapped him on the shoulder.

"Go to Snape's office, Potter."

"What?" Harry paled. "What did I do now?"

"Hell if I know. Now haul your ass out of here."

Harry did.

"Potter."

"Profesor."

Snape didn't ask Harry to take a seat, and Harry didn't ask to either. It was easier to run if he stood. Meanwhile, Snape lounged on a dark armchair and corrected essays. Harry just knew what he wanted: to make him nervous, to make him lose his nerve and ask why he had been summoned, but Harry defiantly kept his cool.

He glanced at the clock. It had been ten minutes and four essays and Snape was still ignoring him.

Harry still kept his silence. He wouldn't give Snape the satisfaction. Nor an opening, for he was guilty of nothing.

It took Snape to work his way through the whole pile of essays until he ran out of excuses to keep ignoring Harry.

"What are you, Potter?" he sneered. "A dog, that you need your master's permisión to speak?"

"I'm not a dog!"

"An insufferable adolescent then. Just like your father." Snape spat out the last part.

"My father wasn't insufferable!"

"Ten points for your insolence will be taken from…"

Harry, remembering what Neil had said, lifted his eyebrows. Would Snape truly dock points from his own house?

Snape stared at the teenager with the taunting countenance and gritted his teeth. "Fifty points from Slytherin, Potter."

His mouth flapped open. Snape hoped a fly would swerve inside and die. Of course, that wouldn't happen; his chemicals purged them extensively.

"But I didn't do anything!"

Wrong. And they both knew it. Snape had seen that expression often enough.

"You will not be attending your detention with Filch any longer."

Instead of getting a normal reaction, Potter decided to make things difficult.

"You can't do that!"

"Beg your pardon?"

"I'll keep going to detention! I need to-"

"No, you don't and you won't." Snape's nose wrinkled. It was just like Potter to imitate the behavior of an obtrusive fly. Unfortunately, Snape's chemicals didn't repel him. "Get out of my sight."

Potter gave him a hateful look, as though Snape had done him a terrible injustice by rescinding his punishment, and skulked out of the dungeon. Good riddance. Snape entertained the thought of not killing the next fly that happened upon him and assigning Potter detention. Maybe it would swerve into Potter's drooping mouth. Then he thought of the plaque the boy had cleaned and cast away the thought for darker times.

The Slytherins had herbology third and fourth period every Tuesday, which meant Harry could hang out with Terry. He'd just come from potions alongside Neville, with whom he got along also, but Snape tended to ruin any sort of conversation they might have. A fly had unfortunately fallen into their cauldron just at the end of the lesson, thereby corruptin the second batch of hydrating solution, again.

Harry knew it was superstitious, but he was convinced that Malfoy was behind the stupid thing. The fly had swerved around so unnaturally, Harry just knew it! Neville even had accidentally tipped a whole packet of slugs into their cauldron when he'd heard Harry's theory, thereby ruining their potion beyond repair.

Snape had then swooped down upon them, grinned evilly, and gleefully proceeded to dock – surprise – fifty points from gryffindor due to "propagation of poisonous fumes" and "jeopardizing the lives of innocents."

Harry, on the other side, remained tragically detention-less. He was convinced Snape _wanted_ him to get trounced in the dueling club, hence why he had rescinded the punishment. It was obvious that he obviously hadn't felt like pardoning him when Harry had cast away his pride to go and beg him for it. Not to mention he wanted flying lessons, not this!


	8. Social Niceties

One way or another, the potions lesson was finally over and Harry could sigh in peace. In comparison to the dungeons' torture, the following herbology double-period passed in a jiffy. The first half of the class was spent in relative silence, listening to Profesor Sprout's lecture and subsequent repotting

of a batch of bellowing borages. In the second half, the students were instructed to work on their end of year projects, with Harry and Terry making a significant breakthrough in theirs.

"Awesome!" cried Terry as soon as class was over. "Can you believe it, Harry? With this, our Ninfillinkunka can easily get top scores!"

Ninfillinkunka happened to be the name of their cacti. It was practically the team mascot by now.

In response to Terry's enthusiasm, Harry nodded his agreement. "Bet Malfoy's aconite is much duller than her," he said spitefully, thinking of Nott.

Ninfillinkunka had been pronounced female by unanimous agreement.

"Hm… You sure have a thing against Malfoy…" Terry was looking at Harry speculatively. "Hadn't been expecting that, to be honest."

"He's a right git," said Harry by way of explanation.

Terry shrugged. "Sure. Figure we could use that static-whatever on his hair?"

Harry grinned. "You think?"

"What I think," Terry said, "is that before you know it, this'll be the new Slytherin trend: balloon-hair with extra on frizz."

Now that startled a laugh out of Harry. He'd told Terry about static electricity earlier and garnered an unprecedented reaction: Terry was now over the moon about what he'd dubbed as "muggle tricks".

"Balloon? Why? Just why?" he exclaimed.

Terry smirked.

"Because we'd have to rub a balloon over Malfoy's hair to make it stand up oddly. He'll be the silliest! Hence, the ballon-hair."

"And how do you reckon we'd manage that?"

"I've got a plan, of course." Terry grinned impishly. "What's more funny than a dumb person? A dumb person acting as though they're hot stuff."

"So?"

"We'd have to convince him that balloons are great for his complexion."

"Right… are you sure you're not the Slytherin here, Terry?"

While they chattered, both boys had made it to the great hall. Looking up in realization, Terry clicked his tongue. "Speaking of which… what do you say you ditch the Slytherins today and have lunch with us outside, Harry?"

For a moment, Harry couldn't believe his ears.

"Sounds good," he said quickly, afraid not to seem too eager. "I'll just go grab some food to take away," In truth, 'good' would've been putting it lightly. Terry's suggestion sounded like a much needed reprieve. Maybe they could even become best friends!

Only… Harry hadn't considered that he and Terry wouldn't be alone. He hand't considered that Terry was actually capable of making friends.

When he saw the two boys awaiting them beside the black lake, Harry's heart dropped into his stomach. He tried to tell himself that it'd be okay. These weren't Slytherins. Ravenclaws shouldn't hold a grudge against him.

It'd be fine, surely.

"'Sup, Miky!" Terry greeted them.

A boy with hazel-colored hair smiled back amiably, though a shadow crossed over his eyes upon glimpsing Harry.

The other, a blonde, hadn't looked up yet.

Smiling still, Terry addressed his friends: "Miky, Ant, meet Harry."

The brunette looked unhappy with the reunion, though went ahead and introduced himself.

"Michael Calvin Corner at your service, Potter."

"Nice to meet you," said Harry uncertainly.

Michael aka 'Miky' was giving Harry a very intense look, so Harry sought escape by glancing at the blonde, who was still seated on the grass. Looking more closely now, Harry realized that he was sketching something.

"Earth to Ant, earth to Ant!" Unceremoniously, Michael snapped his fingers in front of the blonde's face, startling him. Looking lost, the other boy glanced around and rose a hand to shield a pair of clear blue eyes from the glare of the sun. That, however, didn't impede him from studying Harry curiously.

"Hello," said Harry to fill the silence. Instead of replying immediately, the blonde took his time to get up and close his sketchbook.

"Hello." The boy regarded him quietly from above, making Harry uncomfortably aware of his lacking size.

"Ah, yeah. People usually look that way when they realize we're amongst a giant." Terry patted the quiet boy on the shoulder. "He's Anthony Goldstein, by the way."

"We call him Ant, though. Just for the heck of it," added Michael.

By the looks of it, it was Harry's turn to introduce himself now. "That's – hilarious, actually. I'm Harry Potter." He extended his hand, determined to at least have Anthony like him, since Michael clearly didn't.

The boy shook it quietly.

"Nice to meet you." Harry tried to think of something to say. "You're the one who chose sunflowers for the end of year project, right?" The boy looked at him steadily but said nothing. "I mean, for herbology. Err… sorry if I was wrong, I just thought…"

"Don't sweat it, Harry," Terry interrupted. "Ant's from Germany. His English is kinda… you know, dismal."

"What?" Harry looked at Anthony curiously. "Isn't there a wizarding school in Germany?"

"That's probably not the question you should be asking," said Michael. "But rather: communication. It's so essential for everything! Speaking of which… have you heard the latest gossip, Terry?"

"About what?"

"Leanne, of course. You know, that Hufflepuff whose parents are so rich?"

"Not really." Terry looked clueless.

"The pretty one with the hairdos."

"Oh!" Terry laughed. "Yeah. She's hilarious. Have you noticed, Harry? This girl wears a new hairstyle everyday, and everyday it gets weirder."

Harry could in fact recall Leanne from his astronomy class. She was the girl who was constantly whispering into Lily Moon's ear. It was annoying because Lily Moon always happened to giggle while looking at Harry fixedly, and Leanne only made it worse.

When Harry realized he'd let his mind wander, he tuned back into the conversation with Terry and Michael, only to realize he was no longer a part of it. They were discussing things relating to their house or wizardry which Harry had no idea about, and so, there was nothing he could do or say to re-insert himself into the conversation.

He felt downtrodden suddenly and chewed on his lunch in silence. Next to him, Anthony was doing the same. The image of Malfoy's ever-silent henchmen appeared unbidden in Harry's mind. Most of the time, they limited to looking on vapidly. Harry always thought Crabbe and Goil could be replaced with a pair of hamsters and it wouldn't make a difference. And yet here he was, silently gorging his food like a rodent himself. Once again, he glanced at Anthony. At least the blonde was tall enough for the job, but Harry felt like he wasn't even fit for that. Some henchmen he'd be; he could neither check his tongue nor crack his knuckles.


End file.
